THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 AUIT KITTY'S 
 
 TALES. 
 
 MARIA j. MCINTOSH, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " TWO LIVES, OR TO SEEM AND TO BE," " CONQUEST AND SELF- 
 CONQUEST," " FRAI8E AND PRINCIPLE," ETC., ETC. 
 
 A NEW REVISED EDITION. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROA]'<VAY. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 GEO. S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT STREET. 
 
 M DCCC XLVII.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 IT has been several years since Aunt Kitty last pre 
 sented herself to her young friends, yet she hopes that 
 she has not been forgotten by them, and that her reap 
 pearance will give them pleasure. She introduces to 
 them in the present volume no new acquaintance, but 
 she offers to them, in one group, all who formerly in 
 terested them. Blind Alice and her young benefactress 
 Jessie Graham and her ardent, generous, but incon 
 siderate friend, Florence Arnott Grace and Clara 
 and Ellen Leslie, will here be found together. They 
 have been carefully prepared for this second presenta 
 tion to the public by Aunt Kitty's own hand. It is 
 hoped that her efforts for their improvement have not 
 been wholly unsuccessful, and that they will be found 
 not altogether unworthy teachers of those lessons of be 
 nevolence and truth, generosity, justice and self-govern 
 ment, which she designed to convey through them. 
 
 New York, Feb. 15th, 1847. 
 
 1125591
 

 
 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 GOOD MORNING, my young friend ! A merry Christmas, 
 or happy New Year, or at least a pleasant holiday to you ; 
 for holiday I hope it is, as it is on such festivals, when 
 there is no danger of lessons being forgotten, that I best 
 love to see around me a group of happy children, all the 
 happier for having Aunt Kitty to direct their plays to 
 show them the pie asan test walks, or, when they are tired 
 both of playing and walking, to sit with them by the fire- 
 side and tell them some entertaining story. I am never 
 however entirely without such young companions. I have 
 always with me an orphan niece Harriet Armand who 
 is about ten years old. Her father and mother died when 
 she was quite an infant, and she has ever since been to me 
 as my own child. Then I have another niece Mary 
 Mackay just six years old, the merriest little girl on 
 whom the sun ever shone, who, as her father lives quite 
 near me, spends part her mother says the largest part 
 of every day with me. Besides these, there are Susan 
 May and Lucy Ellis, who, living in a neat, pretty village 
 near us, seldom let a fine day pass without seeing Harriet 
 and me. 
 
 I am the very intimate and confidential friend of all 
 these little girls. To me they intrust all their secrets. I 
 know all the pleasant surprises they intend for each other ; 
 am consulted on birthday presents, and have helped them 
 out of many troubles, which, though they might seem little 
 to larger people, were to them very serious affairs. I en 
 courage them to tell me, not only what they say and do, 
 but what they think and feel. Sometimes when they are 
 a little fretful and discontented because their friends have 
 not done just as they wished, we talk the matter over to- 
 
 1*
 
 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 gether, and find that they have themselves been unreason 
 able, and then the fretfulness is dismissed, and they try by 
 a very pleasant manner to make amends for their hard 
 thoughts and unjust feelings. If any one has really in- 
 jured them, or been unkind to them, and I find them too 
 angry easily to forgive it, I bid them put on their bonnets, 
 and we go out together to look for their good-humor. Then, 
 as we see the gay flowers, and inhale the sweet perfumes, 
 and listen to the merry birds that hop around us, twittering 
 and chirping, my little friends forget to be angry ; and 
 while I talk to them of the good Father in heaven, who 
 made all these beautiful and pleasant things for his chil 
 dren on earth, they feel such love and thankfulness to him, 
 that it seems easy for his sake even to forgive those who 
 have done them wrong. These are Aunt Kitty's lessons, 
 they are lessons for the heart, and such as I hope all my 
 readers will be pleased to learn. 
 
 The walk which these little girls and I best love is to a 
 small house, about half a mile from mine. Small as it is, 
 it looks so pleasantly with its white walls, (it is freshly 
 whitewashed every spring,) and green shutters, its neat 
 paling and pretty flower-garden, peeping from the midst of 
 green trees, that any one might be contented to live there. 
 In this house lives a widow, with one only child, a daugh 
 ter, a year older than my niece Harriet. I will tell you 
 their story, which I think will make you feel almost as 
 much interested in them as we do, and you will then un 
 derstand why we like them so well, and visit them so 
 often. 
 
 About three years ago, my little friends, Susan May and 
 Lucy Ellis, began to talk a great deal of a child who had 
 lately come to the school in the village, which they attend 
 ed. They said her name was Alice Scott; that her 
 teachers thought a great deal of her because she learned 
 her lessons so well, and that her schoolmates loved her 
 because she was so good-humored and merry. She had 
 told them that she used to live a great way off, and that 
 her father and mother had left her other home because it 
 was sickly, and had come here because they had heard it 
 was a healthy place. The girls said Alice looked very 
 well herself, but that Mrs. Scott was pale, and that Alice 
 said she was often sick. " A stranger and sick," thought
 
 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 I, "then I must go to see her" and so I did, very 
 soon. 
 
 I found her a pleasing, as well as a good woman, though 
 she seemed sad, except when Alice was with her, and then 
 she was happy and cheerful enough. She told me that her 
 husband was a carpenter, and as he was an industrious and 
 honest man, he had as much work given to him as he could 
 do, and would have made money enough for them to live 
 on very comfortably, had he not been so often ill himself, 
 and obliged to pay so much to the doctors who attended his 
 family when they were ill. This made them very poor, 
 but it was not being poor, she said, that made her look and 
 feel sorrowful, it was the thought of three sweet little 
 babies, all younger than Alice, who had died and been bu 
 ried side by side in the green churchyard of the place from 
 which they had moved. Then she would check herself, 
 and say how very wrong it was for her to grieve so much, 
 when God had still left her dear Alice with her, and she 
 knew her babies were all happy in heaven. ^ 
 
 Mrs. Scott was a very neat and careful woman, and 
 poor as they were, she made her home quite comfortable 
 a great deal more comfortable than that of many people 
 who have more money in their purses, and better furniture 
 in their houses. Their little courtyard too was filled with 
 pretty flowers, for Alice loved gardening, and was never 
 so happy as when cutting her finest carnations and roses 
 to dress her mother's parlor, and make nosegays for her 
 young friends. And yet Alice was always happy, and so 
 you felt she was the moment you looked at her. She was 
 now a healthy, fine-looking child of nine years old. Her 
 very eyes seemed to sparkle with pleasure ; she never 
 walked when she was alone, but bounded along like a 
 young fawn. Her voice was very sweet, and was often 
 heard, when she was with her young companions, ringing 
 out in a gay laugh, or when she was by herself, singing 
 some of the little hymns which her mother had taught her. 
 Yet, gay as Alice was, her laughter was hushed, her 
 bounding step became cautious and noiseless, and her bright 
 eyes were full of tears in a moment, if she saw either her 
 father or her mother suffering from any cause. When they 
 first came to the village, Mrs. Scott was subject to very 
 distressing attacks of pain in the head, and it was touching
 
 8 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 to see the playful Alice changed into a quiet, watchful 
 nurse. 
 
 A year had passed away, and Mrs. Scott was healthier 
 and happier and dear little Alice livelier than ever, when 
 many people in our village and in the country around, and 
 especially many children, became ill with a very dangerous 
 disease, called scarlet fever. My little niece Harriet was 
 one of the first who had it, and she was so ill with it that 
 we feared she would die. As soon as she was well enough 
 to travel, I took her to her grandfather's, about twenty 
 miles off, for a change of air. When we left home, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Scott and Alice were still well. Alice, who 
 loved Harriet very much, wished greatly to see her before 
 she went away, if only to bid her good-by, but I would not 
 consent for fear she should take the disease. Her mother 
 however gave her permission to walk out on the road by 
 which we were to pass, and take one look at Harriet, as 
 we drove by. So when we were about half a mile from 
 hyme, there stood Alice by the road-side, with a bunch of 
 flowers in her hand. As we passed she threw the flowers 
 into the carriage and called out " Good-by, good-by ; dear 
 Harriet, I hope you will come back soon, and well." 
 
 I raised Harriet from the pillow on which she was lean 
 ing in a corner of the carriage, to the window, that she 
 might see Alice ; and as I looked at Alice's red cheeks 
 and smiling face and lively motion, while she ran along by 
 the side of the carriage for a few minutes, I felt sadder 
 than ever to see Harriet so pale and weak. 
 
 Now, my little readers, if any of you have a grand 
 father and grandmother, and have ever gone to visit them 
 after having been ill, you will know how very glad Har 
 riet's grandfather and grandmother were to see her, and 
 how anxious they were to gratify and amuse her. Har 
 riet got well very slowly, and was obliged for some weeks 
 to be much confined to the house, and often to suffer pain. 
 She was a good child, and bore all this so patiently, that 
 when at the end of six weeks we were about returning 
 home, her grandfather gave her a gold piece, worth two 
 dollars and a half, bidding her spend it as she liked. This, 
 you know, was a great deal of money for a little girl, and 
 as Harriet had never had half so much at one time, she 
 was quite wild with delight, thinking at first that it would
 
 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 buy every thing for which she had ever wished. On cal 
 culation, however, she found it would take it all to buy one 
 such large wax doll as a little girl who had lately visited 
 her had brought with her. The wax doll she was deter 
 mined to have, for she thought it by far the most beautiful 
 thing she had ever seen, and so her money was at once dis 
 posed of in her own mind. 
 
 During the first part of her ride home, Harriet talked of 
 nothing but her doll, which I was to get from the city for 
 her as soon as I could. She had not quite decided what 
 would be the prettiest name for it, or the most becoming 
 color for its dress, when we stopped at a friend's house, 
 about eight miles from our home, where we were to rest 
 for two or three hours. Here there was a very clever girl, 
 a little older than Harriet, who brought out all her books 
 and toys to amuse her. Among the books were several of 
 those entertaining little volumes, called the Boys' and Girls' 
 Library, which Harriet had never read. The little girl 
 offered to lend them to her, and I allowed her to take one 
 of them, as she promised to be very careful of it. As soon 
 as we were in the carriage, Harriet begged me to read for 
 her from this little book ; and she was not only much amused 
 with it, but I was able to point out to her some very useful 
 lessons it contained. 
 
 We did not arrive at home till after sunset, and as Har 
 riet was much fatigued, she was soon put to bed. Her 
 room opened into mine, and I went in early in the morn 
 ing to see how she was. She was already awake, and gave 
 me no time to speak to her, for as soon as she saw me, she 
 cried out, " Now, Aunt Kitty, I know what to do with my 
 money." 
 
 " Why, my love," said I, " I thought you were going to 
 buy a doll with it, like Eliza Lewis's, and you know I told 
 you that such a doll would take it all." 
 
 " Oh yes, I know all that, Aunt Kitty, but I've some 
 thing a great deal better to do with it now, I am going to 
 buy books with it. It will buy five volumes of the Boys' 
 and Girls' Library ; for see here, Aunt Kitty," showing 
 me the price which was marked on a leaf of the book she 
 had brought home the day before, " see here, this only cost 
 fifty cents, and I've counted, and there are five times fifty 
 cents in my two dollars and a half."
 
 10 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 " And are you very sure," said I, " that you will always 
 like the books better than the doll, and that when you have 
 finished reading them you will not feel sorry for having 
 changed your mind ?" 
 
 " Oh no ! I am very sure I shall not, for you know I could 
 only play with my doll now and then, and if I kept it all 
 to myself I should soon grow tired of it, and if I let the 
 other girls play with it, it would soon get spoiled or broken, 
 and I should have nothing left for my money ; but it will 
 take me a long time to read through so many new books, 
 and when they get spoiled or torn up, if I remember what 
 was in them, I shall still have something for my gold piece. 
 And then you know, Aunt Kitty, you cannot play with my 
 doll, but you can read my books." 
 
 I was always gratified that my little girl should wish me 
 to share in her pleasures, and so I told her, adding that I 
 thought her choice of the books rather than tne doll was 
 very wise. At the end of the book which Harriet had just 
 read, were the names of all the volumes of the Boys' and 
 Girls' Library that had yet been published. Harriet turned to 
 this leaf, and began to show me which of them she intended 
 to buy. I told her, however, that she had better not think 
 any more of them just now, but that after breakfast she 
 might write down their names and give them to me, and I 
 would send for them to a bookseller in the city. In the 
 mean time I reminded her that she had not yet thanked her 
 Heavenly Father for his kind care of her while she was 
 away, or asked him to bless her through this day. 
 
 I then left her, as she was dressed, and went to the break 
 fast parlor, intending to put some questions to the servant 
 who was there about my neighbors, which I had no time to 
 ask the evening before. I now heard very sad news in 
 deed. The servant told me that a great many children, 
 and even some grown persons, had died with scarlet fever. 
 Among the last was Mr. Scott ; and Alice had been near 
 death, indeed was still very ill. This news made me 
 very sad, and when Harriet heard it she forgot both her 
 gold coin and the books it was to buy, while she begged to 
 go with me to see the sick child. As I was no longer 
 afraid of her taking the disease, since persons usually have 
 the scarlet fever but once, I consented, and we set out as 
 soon as we had breakfasted.
 
 BLIND ALICE. 11 
 
 As we came in sight of the house, we found it looking 
 very gloomy. Though the morning was pleasant and the 
 weather warm, the windows were all closely shut. The 
 little court-yard looked neglected; it was full of weeds. 
 Alice's flowers seemed to have withered on their stalks, and 
 wanted trimming and training sadly. We did not see a 
 creature, or hear a sound, and every thing was so still and 
 seemed so lifeless, that it made me feel melancholy, and 
 Harriet appeared a little afraid, for she drew close to my 
 side and took hold of my hand. When we came quite 
 near, I found the door was ajar, and we went in at once 
 without knocking. The parlor door stood open, and I 
 looked in, hoping to find some one there who would tell 
 Mrs. Scott of my coming, as I was afraid we might disturb 
 Alice by going straight to her room. There was no one 
 in the parlor, and bidding Harriet wait there for me, I stepped 
 very softly on, to the room door. I intended to knock at 
 this door so lightly, that though Mrs. Scott might hear me, 
 it would not wake Alice if she were asleep. When I came 
 near the room, however, I heard a sound like some one 
 speaking very low, yet not whispering. The door was not 
 latched, and every thing was so quiet that I stood still and 
 listened. I not only knew that it was Alice's voice, but I 
 could even hear what she said. Her tone was very feeble, 
 as if from her own great weakness, yet sharp, like that in 
 which persons speak who are frightened or distressed. She 
 appeared, poor child, to be both frightened and distressed. 
 It seemed to me that she was complaining to her mother 
 of the darkness and silence around her, while her mother 
 did not answer her at all, but every now and then moaned 
 as if in great pain. 
 
 " Mother, dear mother," said Alice, " speak to me ; and 
 open the window, mother pray open the window and give 
 me some light. I am afraid, mother I am afraid, it is so 
 dark and still so like the grave." 
 
 For a moment the child was silent, as if waiting for her 
 mother's answer ; but as no one spoke to her, she cried 
 out again, in still sharper tones, " Oh, mother, mother, 
 where are you ? Wake up, mother, dear mother, and 
 open the window and let me look once, only once, on the 
 blessed light, and see your face ; and then mother, I will be 
 quiet and go to sleep, and you may shut it all up again."
 
 12 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 I began now to be quite anxious about Mrs. Scott, who I 
 thought must be ill herself, or she would certainly answer 
 Alice. Besides, I could not stand the poor child's distress 
 any longer, and thinking it would be a relief to her to hear 
 anybody speak, I pushed the door open and went in. The 
 window was shut, as poor Alice supposed, but still there 
 was light enough for me to see her very plainly. Her face 
 was as white as the pillow on which it was lying, and her 
 long and thick dark hair fell around it in great confusion. 
 This, and the terror she felt, made her look very wild. 
 Mrs. Scott was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her hands 
 were clasped over her head, and her face was buried in the 
 bedclothes. Alice's eyes were opened very widely, and 
 their look, together with what I had heard, told me the 
 painful truth at once. Alice was blind perfectly blind, 
 an affliction that sometimes follows scarlet fever. Till this 
 morning she had been either out of her senses, or so low 
 and stupid from the disease, that she did not notice any 
 thing. But now she was better and stronger, and having 
 heard the doctor bid her mother good morning, when he 
 came in to see her, she was first surprised by the long- con 
 tinued darkness, and then frightened by her mother's si 
 lence and distress. And poor Mrs. Scott ! she had long 
 feared for her child's eyes, as Alice would complain of the 
 darkness when the broad daylight was around her, and 
 grieve that she could not see her mother's face when she 
 was weeping over her pillow, or pressing her cold hand on 
 her hot and aching head. But the fever gave Alice many 
 strange fancies, and Mrs. Scott had hoped that this -was one 
 of them, till this morning, when the doctor told her that 
 her precious child was blind, quite blind, and must, he 
 feared, be so always. 
 
 I have told you that Mrs. Scott had had many sorrows ; 
 that she had been sick and poor, had lost three sweet chil 
 dren, and last and worst of all, her husband ; yet she had 
 never complained j she had always said, " My Father in 
 heaven loves me, and he sees this sorrow will do me good, 
 or he would not let it happen to me." But she was now 
 weak and worn with grief and fatigue, and when she first 
 heard that her gay, laughing Alice must now be always in 
 darkness that she could never again see the green earth, 
 or the beautiful flowers, or the bright skies she had so
 
 BLIND ALICE. 13 
 
 loved to look upon that, instead of running, jumping, and 
 dancing along, she must now be led by another, or feel her 
 way very slowly and carefully, she was so distressed, so 
 very, very sad, that she had no power to answer Alice, ex 
 cept by low moans. 
 
 Much of what I have now told you I heard afterwards ; but 
 I saw enough at once to show me what I had best do. Now 
 I want my little readers to mark what I say, and remember 
 whenever any thing happens to another which terrifies or 
 distresses them, they are not to run away from it, but to 
 try to do something to remove it. It no doubt makes you 
 feel very badly to see another suffering, but then you know 
 they feel a great deal worse than you do, and if you will 
 only think more of them than of yourself, you will general 
 ly find something you can do to help them. 
 
 As soon as I saw how things were with Mrs. Scott and 
 poor Alice, I said to Mrs. Scott in as cheerful and quiet a 
 manner as possible, " How d'ye do, Mrs. Scott ? I have 
 called to see how Alice and you are to-day, and I am very 
 glad to find she is better." Then going up to Alice, and 
 taking her hand, I said, " I rejoice, my dear little girl, that 
 you are getting well again ; but you have been very ill, 
 and your mother has watched by you so long that she 
 seems quite overcome with sleep. Will you let me take 
 care of you for a little while, that she may rest ?" 
 
 I spoke very gently, and the child seemed pleased to 
 hear any voice besides her own. 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am," said she, " I will be glad to have 
 you sit by me while my mother rests, if you will only open 
 the window and give me some light." 
 
 Her mother groaned. 
 
 " I will open the window, my dear, and let you feel the 
 breeze, and know that the light is around you, but your 
 eyes are weak yet so weak that it would hurt them very 
 much perhaps blind them entirely, if the light fell on 
 them, so you must let me tie a handkerchief lightly over 
 them before I open the window, and promise me you will 
 not take it off while it is open." 
 
 In this I only told Alice the truth ; for I knew if there 
 was any hope of her recovering her sight it must be by 
 keeping her from using her eyes for some time. She 
 readily promised what I asked, and I then took my pocket- 
 
 2
 
 14 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 handkerchief, which was fine and thin, and passing it 
 lightly over her eyes, tied it so as to cover them without 
 pressing upon them. I then opened the window, and as 
 she heard me open it and felt the breeze upon her, Alice 
 said, " Oh, thank you, ma'am, it is so pleasant to know 
 that the light is here, and I can almost see it ; but indeed 
 you need not be afraid of its hurting me, for I will keep my 
 eyes shut all the time." 
 
 The poor mother had by this time risen up from the foot 
 of the bed, and was trying to be calm ; but when she heard 
 her little girl speak in such cheerful tones, and especially 
 when she heard her say that she could almost see, knowing 
 as she did that this was only a fancy which would soon 
 pass away, she was quite overcome, and bursting into tears 
 she hurried out of the room. I thought it was best to let 
 her go by herself, for I believed she would ask God to give 
 her strength to bear this great sorrow, and I knew that 
 " like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth 
 them that fear him," and that he could send into her heart 
 such thoughts of/his love and tender care for her and her 
 dear child, as would comfort her more than any thing I 
 could say to her. 
 
 I called Harriet in to see Alice. They were very glad 
 to meet, and chatted cheerfully together, while I moved 
 about the room, putting things in as neat order as I could. 
 Harriet told Alice of every thing she had seen since she 
 had been away, which she thought could amuse her, not 
 forgetting the beautiful wax doll, nor was the gold piece 
 left out, nor what she intended to do with it. Alice quite 
 approved of Harriet's intention to buy books instead of a 
 doll, and Harriet promised that she would lend them to her 
 as soon as her eyes were strong enough to read ; for Har- -. 
 riet never supposed that Alice was blind, but thought the 
 handkerchief was bound over her eyes because the light 
 pained them, as she remembered it had done hers when 
 she was ill. 
 
 After a while, Mrs. Scott came in, and going straight up 
 to Alice, pressed her lips tenderly over the places in the 
 handkerchief which covered those dear eyes, and asked 
 her gently how she was now. Alice answered cheerfully, 
 " I feel a great deal better, and so glad to hear your voice 
 again. You quite frightened me this morning, dear mo-
 
 BLIND ALICE. 15 
 
 ther, when you would not speak to me. Have you 
 slept ?" 
 
 " Not slept, my love, but rested, and I too feel a great 
 deal better." 
 
 "I am very glad;" then raising her hand she passed it 
 softly over her mother's face, saying, " I will be satisfied 
 while I can hear you and feel that it is you, though they 
 will not let me look at you." 
 
 Mrs. Scott's lip trembled, and the tears came into her 
 eyes again, but they did not run over. She kissed Alice, 
 and then turning to me, thanked me for coming over, and 
 asked how long I had been at home. 
 
 " Only since yesterday evening," I replied, " and I have 
 so much yet to attend to before I shall feel quite at home, that 
 now, as you are able to come back to Alice, I must, I 
 think, leave her till to-morrow ; but you are too much 
 fatigued to be left alone with her. I know a very goofl 
 girl, who will notonly help you to do your work, but who 
 is so kind that she will take care of Alice, and so cheerful 
 and pleasant, that she will amuse her when you cannot be 
 with her. I will stop at her house on my way home, and 
 send her to you." 
 
 The poor woman did not speak directly, but after a little 
 while she said, " I think, ma'am, I ought not to let the girl 
 you speak of come, for I am not so well able to pay for 
 help as I once was." 
 
 " I will settle all that with her," said I, " and I will find 
 some way to make your little girl here pay me for it, when 
 she gets well. And now, Alice, you will I know remem 
 ber your promise to me, and not even ask your mother to 
 take the handkerchief off your eyes till she darkens the 
 6 room this evening. Perhaps, my dear child, you may 
 have to be in the dark for many days, but we will do every 
 thing we can to help you to bear it patiently. Har 
 riet will spend part of every day with you, and she 
 can read for you till you are able to read for yourself 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, ma'am, I do not think I shall mind the 
 darkness at all, now, if my mother stays with me, and you 
 will let Harriet come very often to see me." 
 
 " Well, my child, we will both come to-morrow, and now 
 we will bid you good-by, and I think you had better be still
 
 16 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 and try to sleep, for while you are so weak, it is not right 
 for you to talk long without resting." 
 
 Harriet and I then left the room, followed by Mrs. Scott, 
 who told Alice she was going to the door with us, and would 
 soon be back. She opened the door for us, and when we 
 had gone out, she stepped out too, and taking my hand, 
 thanked me again and again for the comfort I had given 
 her poor blind girl, as she called Alice, when she was too 
 much stunned, she said, to know what to do. I told her I 
 thought it was very important that Alice should not know 
 her misfortune till she was stronger, for fear she should 
 grieve so much as to make her ill again ; and that now, till 
 the doctor should think it right to tell her of it, I hoped 
 Alice would suppose that the bandage, or the darkness of 
 the room, kept her from seeing. "But," I asked Mrs. 
 Scott, " does not the doctor think something may be done 
 to restore her sight?" 
 
 " Nothing that I can do, ma'am," said* the poor woman, 
 beginning to weep, " and that's the worst part, and the 
 hardest to bear ; -though I try to remember that my Fa 
 ther in heaven sends that too. The doctor says that in the 
 city there are eye-doctors, he calls them oculists, who 
 know a great deal which he does not, and that they might 
 do her some good. But, ah, ma'am ! how am I to go to 
 the city with her, even if they would attend her for nothing 
 after we got there, when I owe more money than I fear I 
 can pay for a long while, without working very hard, and 
 living myself, and what's worse, making my poor child live, 
 on bread and water !" 
 
 I tried to say something that might comfort this poor wo 
 man, but I felt it was a very sad case, and could not s 
 much. She answered to what I did say, " True, ma'a 
 true, God will strengthen me to bear what only His own 
 hand could bring upon me. May he forgive my complain 
 ing heart. He has given me back my child from the very 
 gate of the grave, and now He has sent you to me to be a 
 kind friend in my time of great trouble, and I ought to feel, 
 and I will try to feel, very thankful. But, good-by, ma'am, 
 I hope to see you again to-morrow. I must not stay longer 
 now, for fear my poor child should want me." So saying, 
 she shook hands with Harriet and me, and went into the 
 house.
 
 BLIND ALICE. 17 
 
 As soon as she was gone, Harriet, who had stood while 
 we were talking, staring with a half-frightened look, first 
 at Mrs. Scott, and then at me, said in a low tone, " Aunt 
 Kitty, what is the matter with Alice ? What does Mrs. 
 Scott mean by calling her a blind girl ? Surely, Alice 
 will see again soon will she not, Aunt Kitty ?" 
 
 '" I fear not, my love, I fear not certainly not, unless 
 Mrs. Scott can take her where she can have more done 
 for her than anybody here can do, and I know not how 
 she will get money enough to do that." 
 
 " Money enough vjhy, Aunt Kitty, is Mrs. Scott so very 
 poor ?" 
 
 " You heard her say that she owed money which she 
 could only hope to pay by working very hard, and living 
 very poorly. She has no husband to work for her now, 
 Harriet, and Mr. Scott's and Alice's illness must have made 
 her spend a great deal." 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Kitty ! I am very sorry for Alice, and if I 
 thought it would help her, I would " 
 
 What Harriet would have said was here interrupted by 
 the coming up of the very girl whom I had wished to get 
 to help Mrs. Scott take care of Alice. I told her of Alice's 
 blindness, how anxious we were that she should not hear 
 of it just now, and that we wished to keep her amused, as 
 well as to have her made comfortable. I added, that I 
 would pay her for what she did, and then asked how soon 
 she could go. 
 
 "Right away, right away, ma'am. Poor things, and 
 such kind and clever people as them are too. I only wish, 
 ma'am, I could go to 'em without pay ; I am sure if it 
 wasn't for them as depends on me, I'd do it with all my 
 heart." 
 
 I told her this was not necessary, though it was very 
 kind, and again bidding her take good care of Alice, I sent 
 her to them while I went home. 
 
 Harriet was very silent during the rest of our walk. I 
 did not ask any questions about what she had been going 
 to tell me she would do for Alice, if she thought it would 
 help her ; because, whatever she did, I wished should be 
 done from her own free will. When we were again at 
 home, she did not go to play or to read, as usual, but sat 
 down in one place, as if she were tired, and seemed very 
 
 2*
 
 18 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 thoughtful ; yet she never named Alice, which surprised 
 me a little, as she was accustomed to talk to me of what 
 ever distressed her. In the afternoon she tried to amuse 
 herself, bringing out first a book and then a toy from her 
 room into the parlor where I sat, until she had gathered 
 together all she had ; but there seemed still to be some 
 thing wanting, for in a short time the books were laid 
 aside, the toys pushed away, and Harriet, apparently for 
 getting them, again sat as she had done in the morning, 
 quiet and thoughtful. After it began to grow dark, she 
 carried her books and toys back to- her room, and came 
 and seated herself at my feet. As the weather was warm, 
 we had no lights in the parlor, and the hall light just let 
 us see where objects stood, but was not bright enough to 
 show us very plainly what they were. 
 
 " Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, " can Alice see no more 
 plainly than we do now, when there is no light in the 
 room ?" 
 
 " Not so plainly, my love, for we can see a little. She 
 can see no more than you can of a dark night, when you 
 wake up at midnight, with your windows shut and your 
 curtains down." 
 
 She was silent a few minutes, and then said, " It must 
 be a dreadful thing, Aunt Kitty, to be blind." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Harriet," said I, " it must be a dreadful 
 thing and I fear neither you nor I have been thankful 
 enough to God for saving you from such an affliction, 
 when you got well of the same disease which has made 
 Alice blind. When you pray for your little friend to 
 night, my love, do not forget how much reason you have 
 to be thankful that you can see." 
 
 Harriet did not say any thing more, but she laid her 
 head on my lap, and I heard her sob once or twice. 
 
 It was now getting late, and kissing her, I told her it 
 was time for her to go to bed, and that I would only sit up 
 long enough after her to write a letter to a bookseller to 
 whom I intended sending for the books. Harriet was now 
 standing by me in the hall, where I had gone to light her 
 candle, and when I mentioned the books, she looked as if 
 she was about to speak, but stopped herself. After I had 
 ended, she said, " Aunt Kitty," then stopped again. 
 
 " What, my love ?" said I.
 
 BLIND ALICE. 19 
 
 " Nothing, ma'am good-night," and taking her candle 
 she went to her room. 
 
 I wrote my letter and then went to mine, into which, 
 you must remember, I have told you hers opened. I turned 
 my latch very softly, for fear of waking Harriet if she 
 was asleep ; but as soon as I entered, she called out, " I'm 
 not asleep, Aunt Kitty ; please come here, and let me speak 
 to 3'ou." 
 
 I went to her directly, asking what was the matter. 
 
 " I have been waiting and listening a long time for you, 
 Aunt Kitty, for there is something I wanted to say to you, 
 and I could not go to sleep till I had said it. I hope you did 
 not write the letter about the books, for I do not want them 
 now, Aunt Kitty. I want you, if you please, to give the 
 money to poor Mrs. Scott, that it may help her to go to the 
 city and get something done for Alice's eyes." 
 
 " My dear Harriet, this money is yours, and you have a 
 right to do what you will with it, but I hope you have 
 thought well of what you are going to do now. It will 
 not do afterwards to be sorry you did not buy the books 
 you want, which you will not be likely to get in any other 
 way." 
 
 " Oh no, Aunt Kitty ! I do not want them now ; at least, 
 I do not want them half so much as I want Alice to see 
 again, and I have thought very much about it, indeed I 
 have. 
 
 " When I first heard Mrs. Scott and you talking this 
 morning, and you said Alice was blind, and Mrs. Scott was 
 too poor to take her to the good doctors, who might do 
 something for her, I remembered my gold piece, and 
 thought I would give it to her to help her, and I was just 
 going to tell you so when Betty Maclaurin came up, and 
 you stopped to speak to her about going to Mrs. Scott's, 
 and then I could not, you know." 
 
 " Well, but you could have told me after she had gone, 
 if you still wished it." 
 
 " Yes, I know I could, but while you were talking to 
 her, I remembered my books, and I called all their names 
 over, and thought how Alice would like to hear me read 
 them, till I wanted them more than ever ; and then I thought 
 it would be a great deal kinder to get them and read some 
 of them ejery day to Alice, than to give Mrs. Scott my
 
 2u BLIND ALICE. 
 
 money, which, though I think it so much, would hardly 
 help her at all. Besides, Aunt Kitty, I knew you and my 
 uncle and my grandpapa would give Mrs. Scott a great 
 deal more money than my two dollars and a half, if it 
 would help Alice." 
 
 " And what made my little girl change her mind what 
 made her think this would not be best ?" 
 
 " I do not know, Aunt Kitty ; I only know I could not 
 think of any thing but Alice all day, though I tried every 
 way to forget her, and every thing I looked at made me 
 feel bad, because Alice could not see it too." 
 
 " Did my little Harriet never think, during all this time, 
 of that verse she learned from her Bible the other day, 
 which I told her would always teach her what she ought 
 to do for others, As ye would that men should do to you, 
 do ye also to them likewise ?' ' 
 
 " Oh yes ! Aunt Kitty, I thought of that this evening, 
 when you were telling me what a dreadful thing it is to 
 be blind, and that I might have been blind, as well as 
 Alice, and I said to myself, if I had been blind, I would 
 have thought it very unkind in Alice not to do all she 
 could to help me to see again, and then I felt as if I was 
 so cruel that I could not help crying ; and when you said 
 you were going to write for the books, I wanted to beg you 
 not to do it, but somehow I could not so I only bid you 
 good-night, and came to bed." 
 
 " And what happened then to make you feel differently ? 
 Tell me all you felt and thought, dear child, and then I 
 shall know whether you are doing right now." 
 
 " Why you see, Aunt Kitty, after I was undressed I 
 knelt down to say my prayers, and after I had thanked 
 God as you told me to do, for my own eyesight, I tried to 
 pray that He would^ give Alice back hers ; but, though I 
 said the words over and over again, I could not feel as if I 
 was praying them, for I kept thinking, Aunt Kitty, how 
 deceitful God would think me, to pretend to care so much 
 for Alice's eyes, when I really cared so much more about 
 my books ; and then I remembered the little prayer you 
 taught me once, ' Oh God ! I pray thee show me what is 
 right to do, and make me love to do it.' As soon as I 
 said ' what is right to do,' it came into my head that it 
 was right for me to do all I could for Alice, if everybody
 
 BLIND ALICE. 21 
 
 else did ever so much for her ; and now, Aunt Kitty, I 
 wish I had a great deal more money, that I might give it 
 all to her and though I am just as sorry for Alice, I do 
 not feel half so bad about her ; for if we are willing to 
 do all we can for her, God, who loves her a great deal 
 more than any of us, will certainly give her back her eye 
 sight. Don't you think he will, Aunt Kitty ?" 
 
 " God does love her a great deal more than we do, my 
 dear ; but He is a great deal wiser than we are, and He 
 may see that it is best for Alice that she should continue 
 blind, though it seems so terrible to us. You must remem 
 ber, therefore, that Alice may go to the city and come 
 back no better. Should you not feel sorry then that you 
 had given up your books without doing her any good ?" 
 
 Harriet thought for a moment, and then said, " No, Aunt 
 Kitty, for I should have done what was right, and I could 
 never feel sorry for that, you know." 
 
 I kissed the sweet child, and said, " Dear Harriet, always 
 remember what you now say. Do right, my child, and 
 you will be happy, let what will happen, far happier than 
 if by doing wrong you could get every thing in the world 
 you wished for. And now I may tell you that you could 
 have made no use of your money which I would have 
 thought half so good, or which would have given me half 
 so much pleasure." 
 
 " I am very glad, Aunt Kitty ; I was afraid at first that 
 you did not like me to give it away." 
 
 "Why, Harriet ? What made you feel afraid of this ?" 
 
 " Because you did not talk at first as you do when you 
 are very much pleased." 
 
 " I had a reason, my dear, for not seeming very much 
 pleased until I had heard why you wished to give your 
 money to Alice, a very good reason, I think, which it 
 would take me too long to explain to you to-night, for it is 
 very late already for such a little girl to be sitting up. Go 
 to bed now, and to-morrow morning I will tell you all about 
 it." Harriet went to bed, and soon forgot her good inten 
 tions and my good reasons in a sound sleep. 
 
 I dare say my little readers thought just as Harriet did, 
 that I did not seem at first as much pleased as I ought to 
 have been with her kind and generous feelings to her 
 friend ; but if they will read the conversation I had with
 
 22 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 her the next morning, I think they will understand why 
 this was. 
 
 I did not wake Harriet as early as usual the next morn- 
 ing, because she had been up so late at night. As soon, 
 however, as she was well awake, she remembered our 
 conversation, and said, " Now, Aunt Kitty, you will tell 
 me what you promised ?" 
 
 " Not now, my love, for it is late, and breakfast will 
 soon be ready ; but after breakfast we will go to Mrs. 
 Scott's, and on our way there, I will answer all your ques 
 tions." 
 
 As soon as we had set out for Mrs. Scott's, Harriet again 
 reminded me of my promise. 
 
 " Well, my love," said I, "you wish to know why I did 
 not tell you at once how much pleased I was with your in 
 tention to help Alice. It was because I wanted first to 
 hear your reasons for doing it, and so to know whether 
 you were acting from an impulse or a principle." 
 
 Now my little readers are doubtless very much puzzled 
 by this " acting from an impulse or a principle," and so was 
 Harriet, too. She looked up jn my face with a very 
 thoughtful air for a minute, then shook her head, and said, 
 "Aunt Kitty, I do not understand you at all, I do not even 
 know what impulse means, or principle either." 
 
 " I did not expect you would, my love ; but I hope to be 
 able to explain them to you, if you will listen very care 
 fully to what I am going to say. Persons are said to act 
 from impulse, when they are led to do a thing from feel 
 ing, without pausing to ask whether the feeling be right or 
 wrong. Thus, if you were eating a piece of cake, and a 
 very poor child should come up to you, and saying she 
 was hungry, ask you for it, and you should give it to her 
 without a moment's thought, from a feeling of pity for her, 
 this would be acting from impulse." 
 
 " And would it not be right, Aunt Kitty, to give the poor 
 little child my cake ?" 
 
 " Very right, my love, and if you had asked yourself 
 what ic was right to do, you would have given it, perhaps, 
 just as quickly, for you know your Bible tells you, ' Be 
 pitiful' ' Feed the hungry.' Your feeling of pity, then, 
 was a right feeling, and your readiness to give your cake 
 was what we call a good impulse ; but you know there are
 
 BLIND ALICE. 23 
 
 some very wrong feelings, such as anger, which sometimes 
 makes little girls give hard words, and even hard blows, 
 to their brothers and sisters, or playmates, who will not do 
 as they wish. This again is acting from impulse, though 
 it is a bad impulse. So you see, my dear Harriet, as the 
 best-natured people in the world sometimes have very 
 wrong feelings, if they are accustomed to do just what their 
 feelings tell them to do, that is, to act from impulse, you 
 can never be sure whether their actions will be good or 
 bad." 
 
 "But, Aunt Kitty, when I find out my feeling is a right 
 feeling, I may do just what it tells me to do ?" 
 
 " No, my love ; even when a feeling is a right feeling, 
 it will not be well to do always just what it tells you, for a 
 right feeling may lead to a very wrong action. You think 
 this strange, but I will tell you a story which will show 
 you that it sometimes is so. A little girl was once sent 
 by a lady who was making a visit to her mother, to a thread 
 and needle store, to buy a spool of cotton for her. The 
 lady had given her a shilling, which she held carefully 
 between her finger and thumb, for fear of losing it. An 
 other girl who was passing saw the shilling, and wanted it 
 very much. Being a very wicked child, she began to cry, 
 or at least, to seem to cry, saying that she had just lost the 
 only shilling her mother had, as she was going to the ba 
 ker's to buy a loaf of bread with it ; that they had nothing 
 to eat at home, and she was afraid her mother would beat 
 her when she went back and told her what she had done. 
 The little girl who had the shilling felt very sorry for her, 
 and offered to help her look for the money. They did 
 look for it a long time, the wicked child crying piteously 
 all the while, and saying that her mother would kill her, 
 till the other little girl felt so grieved, that she gave her 
 the shilling which she had in her hand. Now, as she be 
 lieved the wicked child's story, the sorrow she felt for her 
 was very right, and yet you see it led her to do a very 
 wrong action to give away what did not belong to her. 
 Nor did the wrong-doing stop here ; when she went home, 
 her mamma, to whom she intended to tell all about it, was 
 gone out, and the lady asking for her cotton, she was afraid 
 to tell her what she had done with the money,, and so she 
 committed a greater fault by saying what was not true,
 
 24 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 she told her she had lost the shilling. The lady thought 
 her very careless, and thus she got blame which she did 
 not deserve, and as she was really a good little girl in gen 
 eral, she was quite miserable for several days about the 
 story she had told, until she summoned courage to let her 
 mamma know the whole truth. Here you see, Harriet, a 
 very kind feeling made this little girl act very badly ; but 
 if she had been accustomed, when a feeling inclined her to 
 do any thing, to ask herself if it would be right, before 
 she did it, that is, to act from principle instead of impulse, 
 she would have said to the wicked child, ' I am very sorry 
 for you, and if this shilling was mine, I would give it 
 to you, but it is not. You must wait till I have bought the 
 spool of cotton I was sent for, and then, if you will go home 
 with me, I will ask my mamma for another shilling for 
 you.' " 
 
 " Now, Aunt Kitty, I think I understand you ; if I had 
 given my money to Alice yesterday morning, when I first 
 heard she was blind, and before I had thought what was 
 right for me to do, I would have acted from impulse, would 
 I not ?" 
 
 " Yes, my love, and though it would have been a good 
 impulse, and you would even then have had more pleasure 
 than in spending it in any thing that was only for yourself, 
 yet I am afraid your pleasure would not have lasted long. 
 You would soon have begun to think of your books, and if 
 other people offered to help Alice, you would have thought 
 you had been very foolish to give them up." 
 
 "But I shall not think so now, Aunt Kitty I shall al 
 ways think it was right to give them up to do Alice good." 
 
 " That is true, Harriet, and the happiness you feel in 
 doing what is right, you will always feel ; for that which 
 makes you happy will not change ; what is right to-day, 
 will be right to-morrow, and the next day, and the next." 
 
 We walked on a little way in silence, and then Harriet 
 said, looking up at me with a smiling, pleasant face, " Then, 
 Aunt Kitty, after all, it was not very wrong for me not to 
 give my money to Alice at once ?" 
 
 " It was not wrong at all, my dear, for you not to give 
 it till you had asked yourself whether it was right to do so ; 
 but you might have asked this question as soon as you felt 
 sorry for Alice, and then you would have done in the
 
 BLIND ALICE. 25 
 
 morning what you waited till night to do, and have felt just 
 as happy on account of doing it. I would be very sorry to 
 have my little girl suppose that when she sees anybody in 
 distress, she must wait a great while to think the matter 
 over, before she does any thing for them. There is only 
 one question you need ask, before you try to help them, 
 and that is What is it right for me to do ? This, you 
 can ask immediately, and you need not wait long for an 
 answer conscience will tell you very honestly and very 
 quickly what is right." 
 
 Now perhaps some of my little readers may not know 
 as well as Harriet did, what I mean by conscience, so I 
 will tell them. I mean something within you, which makes 
 you know whether you have been good or bad children, 
 before anybody else says any thing about it. 
 
 " But, Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, " how is my conscience 
 always to know what is right or wrong ?" 
 
 " There are many ways, Harriet, in which conscience 
 may learn something about it ; but the easiest and simplest 
 way of all is by reading your Bible, and trying to under- 
 stand and remember what that tells you to do or not to do. 
 When conscience is thus taught, if it tell you that what a 
 feeling would lead you to do, is right, you must do it at 
 once, without thinking any farther about it ; and if con 
 science tell you a feeling is wrong, you must try to get rid 
 of it at once." 
 
 " Get rid of it, Aunt Kitty !" said Harriet, with a won 
 dering look, "how can I get rid of a feeling?" 
 
 " The best way, my dear Harriet, is by refusing to do 
 any thing it would have you. Thus, if you are angry 
 with any one, and the feeling of anger would have you say 
 some of those hard words to them which I spoke of just 
 now, refuse to say them, or if possible even to think them 
 over in your own mind, and you will very soon get rid of 
 your anger." 
 
 Harriet did not say any thing for some minutes. When 
 she next spoke, it was in a very low and somewhat sad 
 tone. 
 
 " Aunt Kitty, I am afraid I cannot do all you tell me, 
 for I have tried sometimes, when I have been angry, not to 
 say any thing, and I could not help talking." 
 
 " I know, my dear, that it is often very difficult, but the 
 3
 
 26 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 harder it is, the happier will you feel if you can do it. 
 But, my dear Harriet, you planted some seeds in your gar- 
 den this morning, and watered them, yet you know they 
 could not grow any more than a pebble could, if God did 
 not put life into them, and make them take in the water 
 and the warmth which will nourish them and cause them 
 to swell out and put forth ; and so, after all the instructions 
 which I can give you, or even which you can get from 
 your Bible, it is only God who can put into your heart such 
 a strong desire to do right, that you will receive these instruc 
 tions, as the little seeds receive the water and warmth, and 
 put forth right feelings and right actions, as they put forth 
 their green leaves. This you must ask Him to do. But 
 here we are in sight of Mrs. Scott's, slowly as we have 
 walked, and you will not be sorry, I suppose, to have such 
 a very grave talk stopped." 
 
 " I am not glad to have you stop talking, Aunt Kitty, but 
 I will be very glad to see Alice, for I have brought a book 
 to read for her, that I know she wants to hear very much." 
 
 I was pleased to see, as I approached, that the house 
 looked more cheerful. The parlor windows were open, 
 and as we went up the steps and passed through the little 
 porch, I saw that they had been nicely swept. The door 
 was latched, and on my knocking at it Mrs. Scott herself 
 opened it for us. She seemed very glad to see us, and 
 said Alice felt stronger and better, and that she had been 
 looking, or rather listening for us all the morning. We 
 went directly to her room. There too every thing seemed 
 in order, and looked pleasantly. The sash was raised, and 
 the soft warm breeze brought to us the sweet smell of the 
 clover, a field of which was in bloom quite near the house. 
 Alice was sitting in bed, propped up with pillows, and 
 though still very pale, looked much more like herself than 
 she had done the day before. The handkerchief was over 
 her eyes, as I had placed it, and I told her I was much 
 pleased to see she had not forgotten her promise. She 
 smiled and answered me cheerfully, " Indeed, ma'am, I 
 have been very careful to keep it. I would not ask to 
 take off the handkerchief till my mother shut the window 
 last night, and told me it was quite dark, and I tied it on 
 myself as soon as I woke this morning, though that was 
 long before daylight. But now," she added, speaking very
 
 BLIND ALICE. 2? 
 
 fast, as if she was afraid that something would call off my 
 attention before I had heard all she wished to say, " may 
 not I have it off just for one single minute ? I do want to 
 see the clover, for I know it is in bloom by the smell." 
 
 " And I hope, my dear little girl, you will be satisfied 
 to know it only by the smell to-day, for it would be very 
 imprudent to expose your eyes to the light so soon. Har 
 riet has come to spend the morning with you, and you must 
 see with her eyes. She will read for yon, and when you 
 grow weary of listening, she will tell you how any thing 
 looks which you want very much to see." 
 
 " Oh ! I shall like that, for then, Harriet, I can see all 
 that you saw when you were away, your grandfather's 
 house, and all the places that you passed on the road, for 
 you know you can tell me how they looked, and then I 
 shall see them through your eyes. Will not that be pleas 
 ant !" 
 
 Having thus satisfied Alice, I proposed to Mrs. Scott 
 that we should leave the children, as I thought Harriet 
 would read better, and Alice and she would talk more free 
 ly, if we were not there to listen to them. I had another 
 reason too, as my little readers will presently see. I want 
 ed to speak to Mrs. Scott about Alice, to learn whether the 
 doctor had seen her after I went away the day before, and 
 whether he still thought that something might be done in 
 the city for her eyes. Mrs. Scott told me he had been 
 there the evening before, when poor Alice thought the 
 room quite dark, and wondered her mother did not bring 
 in a light for the doctor, though a lamp was burning bright 
 ly on the table near her. The doctor passed this lamp be 
 fore her eyes, holding it quite close to them, but she never 
 winked. Poor Mrs. Scott told me this with her eyes full 
 of tears, which streamed down her cheeks as she added, 
 that the doctor did not speak a word, but that the mournful 
 shake of his head as he set down the lamp said as plainly 
 as any words could do, that he thought her child's a very 
 bad case. The doctor's house was quite near to Mrs. 
 Scott's, and while she was speaking, we saw him coming 
 home from a visit he had been making. He was on horse 
 back, and seeing me at the open window, he stopped his 
 horse at the gate of the court-yard to say that he was glad 
 to see me at home again, and to ask how his little friend
 
 28 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 Harriet was, for Harriet having been, as I told you before, 
 a very good child in her sickness, she and her doctor were 
 very close friends. 
 
 Leaving Mrs. Scott in the parlor, I went to the gate of 
 the court-yard, and told the doctor I wanted to put some 
 questions to him about Alice, which I would rather Mrs. 
 Scott should not hear. He very kindly got oft' his horse 
 and came quite near me. I then told him that I wished to 
 know from him whether there was the least hope that any 
 thing could be done in the city to restore Alice's sight. 
 Looking very grave, he answered, that he was afraid not, 
 but as physicians who knew more about the eyes than he 
 did might think differently, if Mrs. Scott were a little richer, 
 or if he were rich enough to help her, he would still advise 
 her to go. I told the doctor that I had some friends who I 
 thought would give Mrs. Scott as much money as would 
 take her to B. and pay her board as long as it would be 
 necessary for Alice to stay there, but that I was afraid the 
 attendance of these oculists would cost a great deal more 
 perhaps than they could give. 
 
 " Not if she go to B.," said the doctor quickly. " That, 
 you know, is the place from which I came, and I know 
 many physicians there. To some of these I would give 
 Mrs. Scott letters, and through them, the pious and excel 
 lent Dr. W., the best 'oculist there, might be made ac 
 quainted with the case of our little Alice. He would, I 
 am sure, do all he could for her without any charge." 
 
 I asked the doctor if he knew any thing of the Institution 
 for the blind in B. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," he replied. " It is a most noble institu 
 tion, and its manager, Dr. H., the most benevolent of men. 
 To him I can give Mrs. Scott a letter, and this poor child 
 will, I doubt not, have all the aid which he can give her." 
 
 Perhaps my little readers never heard of these institu 
 tions for the blind, and I will therefore tell them, that there, 
 those who are perfectly blind are taught to read, write, sew, 
 and do many fancy works, which it would seem to us quite 
 impossible to do without sight. Now you will see at once, 
 if Alice should continue blind, what a great advantage it 
 would be to her to be taught such things. To sit always 
 in the dark, and be able to do nothing, might make even a 
 merry little girl sad, while even blindness may be borne
 
 BLIND ALICE. 29 
 
 cheerfully, when the blind can be employed. Besides, Al 
 ice, if able to do some of the works I have named, might 
 earn money by them, perhaps enough to support herself and 
 her mother too ; and I need not tell you what a comfort 
 that would be to a good, affectionate child. 
 
 Before the doctor left me, I asked him how soon it would 
 be prudent for Alice to travel ; and he said, if she contin 
 ued to get better, she might set out on the following Mon 
 day, as she would go almost all the way in a steamboat, 
 which would not fatigue her so much as travelling by land. 
 He added, if by Saturday evening I were able to get as 
 much money for Mrs. Scott as would be necessary, he 
 would have the letters he had promised to write ready for 
 her, and we would then meet at her house on Sunday, and 
 tell the poor little girl of her blindness, as kindly and 
 gently as we could, if she should not discover it before that 
 time. 
 
 When I went back to the house, finding Mrs. Scott still 
 in the parlor, I told her of what the doctor and I had been 
 speaking, and asked her whether, if she should gotoB. and 
 find that nothing could be done by the physicians there for 
 her child's eyes, she would be willing to have her placed 
 for a year or two at the Institution for the Blind. 
 
 " Willing, my dear ma'am !" said the good woman, " I 
 shall be thankful indeed to the kind people who give their 
 money to support such a good school, and still more to God, 
 who put it in their hearts to do so. I know it will be very 
 hard to part from my poor little girl, even for an hour, now 
 she's so helpless, but I need not come far away from her, 
 for I dare say I can get some kind of work in B. by which 
 I can make enough to live upon, and if she can't come 
 home to me at night, they will, maybe, let me go to see her 
 every day ; don't you think they will, ma'am ?" 
 
 " I do not doubt it," I replied ; " but now I will see Alice, 
 and bid her good-by, for I must hasten home to write a 
 letter that I wish to send away this afternoon." 
 
 I entered Alice's room as I spoke, and found her still 
 listening to the book which Harriet had not more than 
 half finished reading, as she had stopped to talk over with 
 Alice whatever seemed to her most pleasant in it. Alice 
 seemed so unwilling to part with Harriet, that I gave her 
 permission to stay till evening, when I promised to send 
 
 3*
 
 30 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 for her, adding that I would call again myself the next 
 morning. 
 
 " And then, ma'am," said Alice, " do you not think " 
 she stopped, and seemed confused. 
 
 " Do I not think what, Alice speak, my dear child, 
 what would you ask ?" 
 
 " I am afraid you will think me very teasing, ma'am ; 
 but I am so tired of the dark. Do you not think I can 
 take off the handkerchief by that time ?" 
 
 It made me very sad to hear her speak of being tired of the 
 dark so sad that I could not answer her directly. Think 
 ing from my silence that I was displeased with her, she 
 burst into tears and said, " I was afraid you would be an 
 gry with me." 
 
 " Indeed, my dear child," said I, kissing her and wiping 
 the tears from her face, " I am not angry, nor am I at all 
 surprised that you should be tired of this unpleasant band 
 age, but you will not now have to bear it long. This is 
 Thursday on Sunday the doctor says he will take it off 
 altogether. You will try, I hope, for the next two days to 
 bear it as cheerfully, and think of it as little, as possible." 
 
 " Oh yes, ma'am ! indeed I will, I will not say another 
 word about it." 
 
 " And now, my dear little girl, I would have you re 
 member in all your troubles, little and great, that He who 
 sends them is God, your kind and tender heavenly Father. 
 Do you think, Alice, that your mother would willingly -^ 
 make you suffer pain ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am, I am sure she would not." 
 
 " And yet she has given you, since you were sick, very 
 bad-tasted and sickening medicine, and even put a blister 
 on you, which must have given you great pain. Why was 
 this ?" 
 
 " To save me from being more ill, and having greater 
 pain, and to make me well," said Alice, in a very Ipw 
 voice. 
 
 " True, my dear child ; and God, who tells us in the Bi 
 ble that he loves us better than even mothers love their 
 children, never, we may be sure, suffers any pain or trou 
 ble to come upon us which is not to save us from greater 
 pain, to make us better. Remember this, and it will help 
 you to bear a great many things easily, which would other- 

 
 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 31 
 
 wise seem very hard and fret you very much. Harriet, 
 can you not repeat for Alice those lines you learned the 
 other day, called a conversation between a mother and her 
 sick child ?" 
 
 As Alice looked very grave, I pressed her little hand in 
 mine, and without speaking went out of the room, as Har 
 riet began to recite the lines which I will set down here, 
 as I think my little readers would like to see them. 
 
 Conversation between a Mother and her sick Child. 
 
 Mother, we read to-day, you know, 
 
 Where holy Scriptures tell 
 That Jesus, when he lived below, 
 
 Loved little children well. 
 
 And then you told me how his word, 
 
 From the bad spirit's power, 
 Freed him, who never spoke, nor heard, 
 
 Until that blessed hour. 
 
 Beside the ruler's lifeless child, 
 
 In pitying tone he spoke, 
 " The maiden sleeps" though scorners smiled, 
 
 She heard his voice, and woke. 
 
 And now, you say, above the sky 
 
 Unchanged, he loves us still ; 
 Then why did he let baby die, 
 
 And why am I so ill ? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 When Mary walk'd with mother last, 
 
 She saw a little flower, 
 Drooping its head and fading fast 
 
 Within her garden bower. 
 
 To a more sunny spot removed, 
 That flower blooms fair and bright ; 
 
 Our drooping baby Jesus loved, 
 And bore from earthly blight 
 
 And though, my child, I cannot tell 
 
 Why yet he leaves you ill, 
 As I am sure he loves you well, 
 
 I doubt not that he will, 
 At the best time, heal every pain, 
 And make my Mary well again. 

 
 32 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 The letter which I had told Mrs. Scott I wished to send 
 off that afternoon was to Harriet's grandfather, to whom I 
 intended writing about Alice ; for he was a very kind, good 
 man, and was always glad to be told of those who wanted, 
 when he had any thing to give. He had promised to make 
 us a visit soon, but I did not know that it would be so soon 
 as this week. However, about an hour after I had gone 
 home, when I had written, and just as I was folding my 
 letter, a carriage drove to the door, and he alighted from 
 it. As I knew he would stay with us two or three days I 
 was in no hurry to speak of Alice, preferring to wait till 
 Harriet came home in the evening, and see whether she 
 would think of interesting her grandfather in her little 
 friend. He had been with me about two hours when I 
 sent for her, and he told the servant who went that she need 
 not mention his coming, for he thought it would be very 
 pleasant to see Harriet's first joy at meeting him, when she 
 so little expected to see him. 
 
 As Harriet came back with the servant, we could now 
 and then catch a glimpse of her white dress through an 
 opening of the wood, and while she was still too far off to 
 distinguish the faces of persons sitting in the parlor, her 
 grandfather moved away from the window, so that she might 
 not see him till she was quite in the parlor. She came up 
 the steps and through the porch and to the parlor door very 
 quietly and rather slowly, as if she was almost sorry to 
 come in ; but the moment she saw her grandfather, she 
 threw down the flowers she had been picking, and spring 
 ing towards him, was in his lap before he could even rise 
 from his chair to meet her, crying out, " Oh grandpapa ! 
 I am so glad to see you so very, very glad more glad 
 than I ever was in my life before." 
 
 " Why, how is that ?" said he, smiling and kissing her, 
 " I thought my little pet was always as glad to see old 
 grandpapa as she could possibly be." 
 
 " So I thought, too, but. now I am more glad than ever, 
 for I want some more money very, very much ; and I know 
 you will give me some." 
 
 Mr. Armand, for that was his name, looked all at once 
 very grave, and said, " So it is to get money you are glad 
 not to see me !" 
 
 I saw he was not quite well pleased, for he turned ask e 

 
 BLIND ALICE. 33 
 
 his face as Harriet would have kissed him, and seemed 
 about to put her out of his lap. But Harriet was too eager 
 to notice all this ; she kept her seat, and putting her arm 
 around his neck, spoke very fast, " Oh yes, grandpapa ! you 
 know I am always glad to see you ; but now I do want 
 some money for poor Alice." 
 
 "For poor Alice," . said Mr. Armand, "that alters the 
 case," and drawing her close to him again, and looking 
 much better satisfied with her, he added, " And who is 
 Alice ? and what makes her poor ?" 
 
 " Alice ! Why don't you remember Alice Scott, that I 
 talked so much about when I was at your house ? Don't 
 you remember I told you I loved to play with her better 
 than with any of the girls, because she was so good-natured, 
 and never was tired ?" 
 
 " Ah ! now I think I do remember something of her. 
 And is it because she is so pleasant a playfellow, that you 
 wish me to give you some money for her ?" 
 
 " Oh no, grandpapa that would be funny," said Har 
 riet, laughing ; but in a minute she was looking very se 
 rious again, and went on speaking more slowly" Poor 
 Alice's father is dead he died while we were away and 
 her mother is very poor, and Alice has been ill, and oh, 
 grandpapa ! she's blind, quite blind, and Dr. Franks says 
 he cannot do her any good, but that there are some doctors, 
 eye-doctors, oculists is it not, Aunt Kitty ? ki B., 
 who might do something for her, and poor Mrs. Scott has 
 not any money to carry her there. Now, grandpapa, will 
 you not give me some for her?" 
 
 " Have you given her some yourself, Harriet ?" 
 
 " Yes, grandpapa, I have given her all I had, but 
 though it was a great deal for me it is not near enough for 
 her, you know." 
 
 Mr. Armand was silent a minute, and then said, " I am 
 very sdrry, my dear child, to disappoint you, and still more 
 sorry not to help your little friend, in whom I feel much 
 interest ; but what can I do ? I have just spent a great 
 deal of money on a present for you, and I really have now 
 none to give." 
 
 " Spent a great deal of money on a present for me !" re 
 peated Harriet, with a wondering face. 
 
 " Yes, my deai . J think eighty dollars a great deal of
 
 34 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 money to spend for a little girl, and I have just given all 
 that for a present for you. Do you remember the little 
 pony you saw at Mr. Lewis's house, and do you remember 
 thinking Eliza Lewis must be a very happy little girl, be 
 cause she had such a large wax doll to play with in the 
 house, and such a little pony to ride when she went out ?" 
 
 " Oh, grandpapa ! I know that was very foolish in me, 
 but I remember it all the beautiful pony and all." 
 
 " Well, my dear, that, beautiful pony is now yours, and 
 will be here this evening with a new saddle and bridle, 
 for all of which I gave, as I have just told you, eighty 
 dollars." 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Kitty !" cried Harriet, her eyes bright with 
 joy, " only hear, that beautiful little pony ! and he is so 
 gentle I may ride him all by myself may I not, grand 
 papa ?" 
 
 " Yes, I bought him on that account, for your aunt told 
 me that she would like to have you ride, but feared to put 
 you on one of her horses. This pony," he said, turning 
 to me, " is as gentle as a lamb, and so well broken and 
 obedient, that you scarcely need a bridle for him. I made 
 them bring him very slowly, and rest him some hours on 
 the road, that he might not be at all tired when he got here, 
 for I thought Harriet would want a ride to-morrow morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Y|s, yes, dear grandpapa, that will be so pleasant, and 
 I can'ride him to Mrs. Scott's, and let Alice see oh grand 
 papa !" suddenly stopping herself and looking very sad, 
 " she cannot see him. I had forgotten all about it and 
 now you have not any money for her, what will she do ? 
 Poor Alice !" 
 
 " I am very sorry for her," said Mr. Armand, " for it 
 must be a sad thing to be blind. Had I heard about her 
 this morning, I do not know that you would have got your 
 pony, for a gentleman, at whose house I stopped, wanted 
 him so much that he offered to buy him from me at any 
 price. However, he is now yours, and I have no right to 
 him or to the money he would bring. I hope you will en 
 joy riding him very much, and think of dear grandpapa 
 whenever you ride." 
 
 He kissed her again and put her down from his lap. 
 Harriet stood beside him, and smiled a little at first, but not
 
 BLIND ALICE. 35 
 
 so joyfully as she had done when she first heard of pony. 
 After a while her countenance grew more and more seri 
 ous. Several minutes had passed, and her grandfather and 
 i were talking of something else, when Harriet said to him, 
 " Grandpapa, would that gentleman who wanted pony, give 
 you the whole eighty dollars back again ?" 
 
 " Yes, my love." 
 
 " And would you give it all to Alice, grandpapa ?" 
 
 " I should have no right to give any of it, Harriet. The 
 pony is now yours, and should you choose me to sell him, 
 the money would be yours, and I should honestly pay every 
 cent of it to you, and you could give it to Alice if you 
 liked." 
 
 Harriet was again silent for a minute or two, and seemed 
 very thoughtful ; then, raising her head and putting her 
 hand into her grandfather's, she said, " Grandpapa, please 
 take pony back and send me the money." 
 
 Her grandfather laid his hand affectionately on her head, 
 and said, " Certainly, my child, if you wish it, when I am 
 going, that will give you two nights and a day to think of 
 it. You have not seen pony's new saddle and bridle yet, 
 and you may change your mind." 
 
 " Oh, no, grandpapa, I shall not change my mind, for I 
 am sure it is right to do without pony myself, and let Alice 
 have the money." 
 
 She looked at me as she said this, and I replied, " I am 
 pleased that you have not forgotten what we talked of this 
 morning." 
 
 Pony came, and beautiful he was, and very pretty was 
 the new saddle and bridle ; and Harriet rode him to Mrs. 
 Scott's, in the morning, and home again, and very much 
 did she enjoy her ride ; yet she did not change her mind, 
 for when her grandfather asked, on the morning he left us, 
 "Well, Harriet, does pony go with me, or stay with you ?" 
 she answered directly, " Go with you, grandpapa." And 
 when he was brought to the door, all saddled and bridled 
 for his journey, she went up to him, and stroking his sleek 
 sides, said, smilingly, " Good-by, my pretty pony good- 
 by ; I could love you very much, but not so much as I 
 love Alice." 
 
 So pony went on Saturday morning ; and on Saturday 
 evening (for the gentleman who bought him only lived
 
 36 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 about ten miles from us) came the eighty dollars, enclosed 
 in a very affectionate note to Harriet, from her grandfather. 
 She seemed never tired of reading the note, or of admiring 
 the pretty new bills that were in it. When she gave me 
 these bills for Mrs. Scott, she begged me not to say any 
 thing about her in giving them. As I always liked to know 
 my little girl's reasons for what she did, I asked, " And 
 why, my dear ?" 
 
 She looked confused, hesitated a good deal, and said, 
 " Aunt Kitty, do you remember when that little baby's 
 mother died last summer, and I begged you to let me make 
 its clothes, and and oh, you remember, Aunt Kitty." 
 
 " Yes, Harriet, I remember that you sewed very indus 
 triously at first, and afterwards, getting tired of your work, 
 the poor little baby wanted clothes sadly." 
 
 " But, Aunt Kitty, that is not all. Do you not remember 
 what you told me was the reason I felt tired so soon ?" 
 
 " I think I do ; was it not that you had done it from a 
 desire for praise, and that as soon as people were tired of 
 praising you, you were tired of working ? But I do not 
 see why you speak of that now ; when you have given the 
 money to Alice, you cannot take it back, so you need not 
 be afraid of changing." 
 
 "No, Aunt Kitty, not of changing at least I could not 
 take it back but but you know " she stopped, and 
 hung her head. 
 
 " If you did it for praise, you think you might get sorry 
 for having done it, and wish you could take it back, when 
 people were done praising you." 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Kitty, that is it and if people knew it, I 
 could not be quite sure that I was not doing it to be praised, 
 you know. I am very happy, now that dear Alice will 
 have it, and I do not think I can ever want to take it back, 
 or ever be sorry for giving it to her ; but you told me the 
 other day, that doing right was the only thing I could be 
 certain of always being glad of ; so I would rather, if you 
 please, you would riot say any thing about me, and then I 
 shall know that I have done it only because it is right, and 
 that it will always make me just as happy as I am now." 
 
 I was too much pleased with Harriet's reasons, to refuse 
 her request ; so no one but her grandfather, her grand 
 mother, and myself, ever knew what she had done for
 
 BLIND ALICE. 37 
 
 Alice, till now that I have told it to you, which I would not 
 have done, did I not feel sure that after what I have said of 
 her wishes, you would not, if you should ever meet her, 
 speak to her on the subject. 
 
 I was able to add twenty dollars to Harriet's gift, and so 
 there were one hundred dollars for Mrs. Scott to begin her 
 journey with. It would cost her but little to go to B., and 
 this would enable her to stay there quite long enough to 
 learn what could be done for Alice. Harriet thought she 
 would rather give her gold piece to her friend herself, to 
 spend as she liked. 
 
 On Sunday afternoon the doctor and I met, as we had 
 agreed to do, at Mrs. Scott's. We saw her first in the par 
 lor. I gave her the money, and the doctor had his letters 
 ready for her, and explained very carefully to her what he 
 wished her to do. He had already sent by the mail a let 
 ter to his sister, who lived in B., telling her of Mrs. Scott's 
 coming, and requesting her to look out for some quiet 
 place, where she might be cheaply boarded, as near as 
 possible to the Institution for the Blind, for there he thought 
 Alice would have to go. He now gave Mrs. Scott, on a 
 card, his sister's name, and the name of the place where 
 she lived, telling her to go there when she arrived in B., 
 and if his sister had not found a place for her, he was sure 
 she would keep her at her own house till she did. Having 
 arranged all these things with Mrs. Scott, we went into 
 Alice's room. 
 
 Alice was sitting up, and was so anxious for our coming, 
 and so happy at the thought of seeing once more, that she 
 had quite a rosy color in her cheeks. The doctor looked 
 at her very sadly, and said " How d'ye do" to her, with a 
 very soft and kind voice. She seemed hardly to hear him 
 but said very quickly, with a pleasant smile, " Now, doc 
 tor, must I take off the handkerchief?" and raised her 
 hand to take out the pin which fastened it. 
 
 " Not yet, my dear," said the doctor, taking hold of her 
 hand, " I wish to say something to you first. I fear, Alice, 
 that you are going to be very much disappointed. You 
 have no idea how very bad your eyes are. They give you 
 no pain, and therefore you think there cannot be much the 
 matter with them ; but, my dear child, those are not the 
 worst diseases of the eye which give the most pain. You 
 
 4
 
 38 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 think that only this handkerchief keeps you from seeing, 
 but I am afraid that when I take it off you will still see 
 very dimly very dimly indeed nay, Alice, I may as 
 well tell you all, I fear, that at present, at least, and per 
 haps for many days to come, you will not see at all." 
 
 As Dr. Franks spoke, the smile had gone from Alice's 
 lip, and the color from her cheek, so that when he was done, 
 instead of the bright, happy face she had when we came 
 in, she was looking very pale and very sad. She seemed 
 to have forgotten the handkerchief, her hands hung down 
 in her lap, and she did not speak a word. Both the doctor 
 and I were much grieved for her, and Mrs. Scott's tears 
 fell upon her head as she stood leaning over the back of 
 her chair. Alice did not weep indeed, she seemed quite 
 stunned. 
 
 After a while, the doctor said, " Alice, this handkerchief 
 is of no use to you, and it must be very warm and un 
 pleasant shall I take it off?" 
 
 Her lips moved, and she tried to say, " Yes, sir," but 
 we could scarcely hear her. 
 
 It was taken off. Alice kept her eyes shut for a little 
 time, and then opened them suddenly, and turning them 
 first towards the window, looked slowly around the room, 
 then shut them again, without saying a word. She soon 
 opened them, and looking towards the doctor, said, in a low, 
 faltering voice, " Doctor, is it night ?" 
 
 " No, my child, it is not more than four o'clock in the 
 afternoon." 
 
 She was silent a minute, then said, " Is it cloudy ?" 
 
 " No, Alice, the sun is shining brightly." 
 
 She was again still for a little while the tears began to 
 come into her eyes, and her lip quivered very much, as 
 speaking again, she said, "Are the windows shut ?" 
 
 The doctor again answered her, " No, they are open, 
 and the sashes raised." 
 
 Poor Alice covered her eyes with her hands for a sec 
 ond, then stretching out her arms, and turning her head 
 around as if looking for some one, she cried mournfully, 
 " Mother, mother, where are you ?" 
 
 " Here, my own precious child," said Mrs. Scott, as 
 coming round to the side of the chair, she put her arms 
 around her, and drew her head down upon her bosom.
 
 BLIND ALICE. 39 
 
 Alice did not cry aloud, but her tears came fast, and hei 
 sobs were so deep, that it seemed as though her heart 
 would break with this great sorrow. The doctor said, 
 softly, to Mrs. Scott, " Persuade her to go to bed, as soon 
 as you can," and then both he and I went out, for we knew 
 her mother would be her best comforter. 
 
 Mrs. Scott was to leave her home at ten o'clock the 
 next morning, and at nine Harriet went over to say some 
 parting words to Alice, and I to receive some last directions 
 from Mrs. Scott about taking care of the house and furni 
 ture for her. I could see that Harriet was almost afraid 
 to meet Alice, thinking she must be very miserable now 
 that her blindness was known to her. But though she 
 looked sadly, and turned away with tears in her eyes when 
 we first spoke to her, she soon began to talk with Harriet 
 about her journey. She seemed to hope to receive great 
 good from the physicians in B., and I was glad to find that 
 her mother had not tried to discourage this hope ; for, I said 
 to myself, if nothing can be done for her, she will find it 
 out soon enough, and every day that passes will help to pre 
 pare her better for it. She seemed much gratified by Har 
 riet's present of the gold piece, and when she bade me 
 good-by, said, " I thank you, ma'am, very much, for all 
 your goodness to me." 
 
 Mrs. Scott, too, begged me to tell the friends who had 
 helped her how very grateful she was to them, and how 
 earnestly she would pray to God to reward them for all 
 their goodness to her and her fatherless girl. I knew by 
 the color that came into Harriet's face, and the tears that 
 sprang into her eyes, as the good woman spoke, that she 
 had heard her ; and I was glad of it, for I thought that she 
 deserved to be made as happy as I felt certain such thank 
 fulness would make her, for her desire to do right, and her 
 readiness to give up her own pleasures for her friend's good. 
 
 After our 'friends were gone, I spent some time in giving 
 directions to Betty about the cleaning and putting away 
 things, so that she might leave the house in order ; and 
 Harriet kept herself from being very sad by working in 
 Alice's garden, weeding the beds and tying up the flowers, 
 which, as I said before, had been left during her illness to 
 trail upon the ground. 
 
 Mrs. Scott had promised to write to me as soon as the
 
 40 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 physicians had decided whether they could or could not be 
 of any service to Alice ; and you may be sure we looked 
 very anxiously for her letter. It came about two weeks af 
 ter she had left us, and I will copy it for you here, as I am 
 sure you will like to see it. 
 
 B , July 2, 18. 
 
 MY DEAR MADAM, 
 
 You were so kind as to ask me to let you know what the 
 doctors here might think of my little girl's case, and I have 
 only been waiting for them to make up their minds about it, 
 before I wrote to you. Yesterday they told me, what I felt 
 long ago, that they could not help her. This is a great 
 trial, ma'am, but, blessed be God, with great trials He sends 
 great mercies. I don't know, ma'am, how to tell you the 
 thankfulness that is in my heart, first to Him, and then to 
 you and Dr. Franks, and all the other kind friends that 
 have helped me through this affliction. It is a comfort to 
 me to feel that every thing has been done for my poor 
 child that could be done ; indeed, I fear it would have bro 
 ken my heart to think that something might be done to 
 make her see again, and to feel that I could never get 
 money enough to pay for that something, if I worked till I 
 was dead. Oh ! I thank God that I have not got that to 
 bear. 
 
 But I am forgetting all this time to tell you how kind 
 everybody here has been to me. Miss Franks is the doc 
 tor's own sister, I am sure, for she is just such another kind 
 and generous person. The steamboat did not get here till 
 it began to grow quite dark, and I was very much troubled, 
 thinking how I should find my way up through the crowd, 
 and fearing lest my little trunk should get lost, which had 
 all our clothes in it, or that if I went to see about that, Al 
 ice would get hurt, when a man came on board and asked 
 for me. He said Miss Franks had sent him with a car 
 riage to bring us to her house. It was a hired carriage, 
 as I found afterwards, for I thought at first it was her own ; 
 but she would not let me pay any thing for it. Was not 
 this kind ? She had us to stay at her house the first night, 
 and the next morning took us again in a carriage to the 
 place where she had got board for us. This was in a very 
 neat house, and with a clever, good woman. She is an el-
 
 BLIND ALICE. 41 
 
 derly. single woman, who seems to be pious, and is very 
 kind to us. Miss Franks sent round her brother's letters, 
 after she had written on them the name of the street and 
 number of the house we were staying at, that the doctors 
 might know where to find Alice. 
 
 The next day three doctors came and brought with them 
 
 a Dr. W , who, they said, knew more about the eyes 
 
 than any of them. At first my little girl seemed shy of 
 having so many strangers see her ; but they were so kind 
 to her, that she does not feel at all afraid now. Indeed, 
 ma'am, everybody is kind to her, and they speak so softly 
 and pitifully to her, that it often makes the tears come into 
 my eyes, and my heart feel so full, that I have to go away 
 to my room and thank God for all His goodness and theirs 
 to her ; for you know, ma'am, goodness to her child, and 
 that a poor blind child too, is more to a mother than any 
 thing people could do for her. 
 
 Two or three days ago, Dr. H., who they say is at the 
 head of that Institution for the blind you talked to me about, 
 came to see us, and he talked so gentle and pleasant like, 
 that Alice loved him right away. He had some talk with 
 the doctors when they came, and then he asked Alice if she 
 would not like to know how blind children, who never had 
 seen at all, read and wrote and sewed, and told her, if she 
 would come to his house, he would teach her as they were 
 taught, and that she would find many of them learning 
 there. Alice seemed very glad to hear that she might 
 learn to do these things now, and need not wait doing 
 nothing till her eyes got well, for you know, ma'am, she 
 was always an industrious child, and it grieves her sadly 
 to sit all day idle. She asked though if I could come with 
 her, and the kind gentleman said I could come with her in 
 the morning, and bring her away in the afternoon. This 
 made my heart jump for joy, for I was afraid he was go 
 ing to say she must stay there all the time. She will begin 
 to go next Monday. 
 
 And now, ma'am, I must tell you some more of Miss 
 Franks' goodness. She has got me some plain sewing, and 
 so many of her friends promise to employ me in that way, 
 that I hope I shall be able to live by my needle ; and then, 
 ma'am, I think, maybe I ought to send back what money 
 I have left, to them that were so good as to give it to me. 
 
 4*
 
 42 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 Will you please, ma'am, to tell me if this would be right ? 
 Alice begs me to send her love to her dear friend, Miss 
 Harriet, and her dutiful respects to you. She bid me tell 
 Miss Harriet that she has not spent her gold piece yet. 
 Please, ma'am, to tell the doctor how kind his sister has 
 been to us, and thank him for all he has done for us. I am 
 afraid, ma'am, I have tired you with this long letter ; but 
 indeed when I began to write, I could not help telling you 
 of all the goodness which has been showed to me. God 
 bless you, ma'am, prays 
 
 Yours, very thankfully, 
 
 MARTHA SCOTT." 
 
 Mrs. Scott was told that those who had given her the 
 money would not have any of it returned, and she then, I 
 afterwards found, paid every one in our village to whom 
 she owed any thing, saying, that though they had told 
 her to make herself easy, she could not be easy while she 
 was in debt to those who, she knew, needed the money. 
 
 In a few months after she went to the Institution for the 
 Blind, Alice wrote a letter to Harriet, and from that time 
 they wrote to each other as often at least as once in a month. 
 It has been now about three months since Dr. Franks, who 
 had been making a visit in B , brought Harriet a let 
 ter from Alice, which gave her great delight. You shall 
 read it for yourself, and see how much reason she had to 
 be pleased with it. 
 
 B , April 14, 18. 
 
 DEAR HARRIET, 
 
 I am so happy that I can hardly write, or do any thing 
 but tell everybody near me how happy I am ; or when 
 there is nobody near me, sit down and think of you and 
 your good aunt, and Dr. Franks, and Susan and Lucy, and 
 everybody that lives at home. Oh, Harriet, we are com 
 ing there coming home next week dear home. It is the 
 middle of April now, and so many flowers will be opening, 
 and the peach-trees and the apple-trees will be in bloom 
 soon, and they will look so beautiful. I cannot see them, 
 but I can smell them, and feel them, and think how they 
 look. Oh, Harriet, how much better off I am than the 
 poor children who never did see, and who cannot remem-
 
 BLIND ALICE. 43 
 
 her how such things looked ! But I cannot write any more 
 now, except good-by, from your affectionate 
 
 ALICE. 
 
 P. S. I have spent the gold piece ; I will show you 
 how, when I come. 
 
 Mrs. Scott sent a message to me by the doctor, to ask, 
 with many apologies for troubling me, that I would get 
 Betty Maclaurin to go to her house early.in the next week, 
 and put every thing in order for her by Wednesday even 
 ing, as she hoped to be -at home some time in that night. 
 Betty liked Mrs. Scott and Alice, and was quite ready to 
 do them a kindness ; so, early on Monday morning, she 
 was at work, and she worked so industriously in the house, 
 and Harriet so industriously in Alice's garden, that, before 
 Wednesday evening, both house and garden were in per 
 fect order. . * 
 
 Harriet's grandfather had taken so much interest in 
 Alice, that he had said, when she came home he intended 
 to come to see her ; so Harriet found time, in the midst 
 of all her preparations for her friend's arrival, to write him 
 what day she was expected ; and on Wednesday, not only 
 he, but her grandmother also, who seldom left home, came 
 to spend a week with us. I was not in the house when 
 they arrived, and when I came in, Harriet met me at the 
 door before I had seen them, and cried out, " Oh, Aunt 
 Kitty ! grandpapa's come, and grandmamma too ; and only 
 think what they have brought me^-dear, pretty pony as 
 pretty as ever, with another beautiful new saddle and bri 
 dle. Is it not good in them, and am I not a happy girl ?" 
 
 Now my little readers must not suppose that Mr. Ar- 
 mand had only made Harriet believe that pony was sold, 
 while he really kept him for her. Oh no ! Mr. Armand 
 always told just the truth, and pony was sold really and 
 truly sold to the gentleman he had spoken of, who had 
 bought him for his son. . This boy was gone to a school at 
 a distance from his home, and besides, he was now so good 
 a rider that his father thought he might have a larger horse 
 when he came back, so he was not unwilling to let Mr. 
 Armand have pony again, when he expressed a wish for 
 him. 
 
 Harriet was indeed a happy girl this Wednesday even-
 
 44 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 ing, and still more happy was she when she set out, after 
 an early breakfast the next morning, to ride on pony to 
 Mrs. Scott's. As I started at the same time to walk there, 
 and she would not leave me, she rode very slowly. If any 
 of you can remember some morning in Spring, when the 
 air, though cool, had not the least frosty feeling in it, when 
 the grass was fresh and green, when the trees had put out 
 their first tender leaves, and the peach and the pear and 
 the apple blossoms looked as if just ready to open, to have 
 risen early and walked or ridden out, while the leaves and 
 the blossoms were still glittering with the night-dew, you 
 will know how delightful Harriet and I found it. We went 
 on, at a brisk pace for me, and a slow one for pony, till we 
 were in sight of Mrs. Scott's house, when Harriet looked 
 so eager, that I bade her hasten on. As I spoke, I cher- 
 uped to pony, and he went off in a smart trot, which soon 
 brought Harriet to the gate. I had then just entered the 
 clear space before the house, and could see and hear all 
 that passed. Alice was standing at the open window, 
 looking healthy and happy. As pony stopped, she called 
 out to her mother, who seemed to be in some other room, 
 for she spoke loudly, " Mother, mother, here is somebody 
 on horseback it must be the doctor." 
 
 " No, Alice, it is Harriet," cried my little niece, as she 
 sprang from her pony, without much of the caution which 
 she had promised her grandfather always to use in getting 
 down. 
 
 " Oh ! it is Harriet," exclaimed Alice, clapping her 
 hands joyfully together, and then putting them out to feel 
 her way to the door. Mrs. Scott came from the next room, 
 and taking her hand, led her to meet us. The little girls 
 were in each other's arms in a moment, and any one who 
 had looked at Alice's happy face, and her eyes bright with 
 tender and glad feelings, would never have believed they 
 saw a blind girl. Harriet told of the beautiful pony her 
 grandpapa had brought her the evening before, and Alice 
 passed her hands over him to feel how small he was and 
 how sleek and glossy his sides were, and promised that she 
 would sometimes mount him and walk him over to my 
 house with Harriet at her side. Then they went into the 
 flower-garden, and Alice exclaimed, " Oh, Harriet ! how 
 nicely you have weeded my beds and trimmed my flowers."
 
 BLIND ALICE. 45 
 
 " Betty told you that," said Harriet. 
 
 " Betty told me who did it, but I knew it was done with 
 out her telling me, for I felt them. I did not have to feel 
 my hyacinths and jonquils to know they were in bloom, 
 for I smelt them, and I know exactly how they look. My 
 rose-bushes too," said she, putting her hand on one, 
 " are in bud ; they will soon be beautiful. You see, Har 
 riet, I love my garden, and can take pleasure in it, if I 
 am blind ; but come into the house, and let me show 
 you the books they have taken pains to make for poor 
 blind people, and the different kinds of work I have learned 
 to do." 
 
 Alice took Harriet's hand, and walked with a quick and 
 lively step into the house. When they had entered the 
 door, she left Harriet, and putting her hands out to feel 
 that there was nothing in her way, passed into the next 
 room, and soon came out again with her arms full. There 
 were only a few books I was sorry to see so few but 
 they were so large that she could not well have carried any 
 more. Having laid them on the table, she opened one, and 
 we saw that the letters were large, and so raised from the 
 paper that the blind could feel their form, and thus distin 
 guish them as readily as we can distinguish the letters in 
 ordinary printing by seeing them. Alice soon showed us 
 how this was done, for passing her finger over the lines of 
 a sentence on the page to which she had opened, she read 
 it as correctly as anybody could have done. Then turn 
 ing with quickness to a box which stood near, she said, 
 " Now see my work." There were baskets she had wo 
 ven, purses and bags she had knitted, pincushions and 
 needle-books she had sewed as neatly as possible. Full of 
 animation and happy as Alice seemed in showing these 
 things,I am certain she was not half so happy in showing, 
 as Harriet was in seeing them. Having looked at them 
 myself, I went into the garden to show Mrs. Scott where 
 some seeds were planted. From the garden I could still 
 hear and see through an open window what was passing in 
 the parlor, and I was too much interested in the feelings 
 of these little girls not to attend to them. I soon saw, 
 however, that they did not think themselves observed ; for 
 Harriet who had hitherto spoken little, expressing her 
 pleasure in looks more than in words as soon as they were
 
 46 BLIND ALICE. 
 
 left alone, took Alice's hand, and said, "How glad I am 
 you can do so much !" 
 
 " I knew you would be glad, and that made me show 
 you ; and I wish I could show them to all the kind people 
 who gave mother money to take me to B., for, you know, 
 if it was not for that, I could not have learned to do these 
 things, and you don't know, Harriet, how hard those first 
 dark weeks were to bear, and how often, when I thought it 
 would be always so, I wished I was in the grave-yard with 
 my little brother and sisters ; that was wicked, I know, 
 Harriet, but I could not help it then." 
 
 Harriet stood with her face turned from me, yet I could 
 see by her movements that she was weeping. 
 
 Alice put her arm around her, saying, " Don't cry, I am 
 'ery happy now." 
 
 " And so am I," said Harriet, sobbing, " and I believe 
 that's what makes me cry." 
 
 " That's funny too," said Alice laughing, and Harriet 
 laughed with her, though the tears were still on her cheeks. 
 Then Alice told that there was a kind shopkeeper in B., 
 who had promised to buy all she made, and that her mother 
 said, she got so much money from him, that she could af 
 ford to keep a woman Alice hoped it would be Betty to 
 do the hard work, and as she would only take in a little 
 plain sewing, she would then be able to sit with Alice, and 
 could sometimes spare time to read to her. " And Har 
 riet," she added, " I promised to show you what I had 
 bought with the gold piece you gave me. I bought the 
 straw for my first baskets, and the braids and ribands for 
 my first purses and bags, and the pieces of silk and velvet for 
 my first pincushions and needle-books ; so you see how 
 much it helped me," and she kissed Harriet, little knowing 
 how much more she owed to her. 
 
 And now, if any of my little readers have thought that 
 Harriet made a foolish choice, when she gave up her pony 
 to help her friend, they will, I am sure, change their minds 
 when they remember what a sad house this was at the time 
 that Alice first became blind, and think that now, as Har 
 riet looked at Mrs. Scott's contented and Alice's cheerful 
 face, and saw how much her friend could do and could en 
 joy, and heard that by her pleasant employments she could 
 not only support herself comfortably, but help her mother
 
 BLIND ALICE. 47 
 
 too, she could say to herself " This is my work it is I 
 who have made them so happy." Who would not have given 
 pony for such a feeling, even though they had never got 
 him back again ? 
 
 When we were going away, Alice very modestly gave 
 me a beautiful work-basket, a very neat needle-book, and 
 pincushion, all of her own make. For Harriet she had 
 made a very pretty bag, and hearing that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Armand were with us, she selected a very handsome purse 
 and needle-book, and requested Harriet to present them 
 to her grandfather and grandmother, as the offerings of a 
 blind girl. 
 
 And now, my young friends, I have little more to tell 
 you of Alice. If you could visit her, you would find her 
 sometimes employed in making those tasteful and pretty 
 things, by the sale of which she aids in supporting her mo 
 ther and herself sometimes in her garden, feeling for the 
 weeds and pulling them away from her plants, or tying 
 up her vines, or cutting flowers to dress their pleasant little 
 parlor sometimes walking, leaning on her mother's arm, 
 or on that of some young companion, and though you 
 may see her look a little sad when her friends speak of a 
 beautiful flower, or, admire a fine sunset, you will oftener 
 hear her sweet voice in cheerful talk, or merry laugh, or 
 singing some pleasant hymn, expressive of her gratitude 
 to God for His goodness to her. And when you see and 
 hear all this, you will, I hope, not envy Harriet, for that 
 would be a wrong feeling, but watch every opportunity of 
 going and doing like her. 
 
 As this has been a very long story, and I do not wish to 
 tire you, I will now bid you good-by, hoping you will soon 
 wish to hear from me again. Whenever you do, I shall 
 know it, and shall be quite ready to have another talk with 
 you. 
 
 THE END.
 

 
 JESSIE GRAHAM: 
 
 FRIENDS DEAR, BUT TRUTH DEARER. 

 
 JESSIE GRAHAM, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SPRING MRS. GRAHAM. 
 
 SPRING is here. The sun is shining brightly, and the 
 air is warm, and the breeze is scented with the blossoms 
 of the apple and the pear. The trees whose branches 
 have been bare all winter, except when the snow wrapped 
 them in a white mantle, have now put on a dress of the 
 lightest and liveliest green. The gardens, too, are begin 
 ning to look gayly. There is in my garden one bed which 
 is especially bright. This is Harriet's. Here she digs 
 and plants and manages all in her own way, and here, at 
 this season, she and her little friends may be often seen 
 with heads bent down to the ground, searching for the first 
 appearance of a crocus or a hyacinth. If one is seen, a 
 joyful clapping of hands and a general call for Aunt Kitty 
 announces the discovery. 
 
 Doubtless all my little readers have noticed the changes 
 which this season brings. How pleasant is the first walk 
 which you can take without cloaks or shawls ! And the 
 first violet or buttercup which is found, we never think 
 any other half so pretty. And the brooks which have been 
 frozen up all winter, now prattle away over the stones, as 
 noisily as little girls who have just got out from a school- 
 room where they have been obliged to be very still for two 
 or three hours. And the little birds which have spent their 
 winter in a southern climate, sing as merrily as if they 
 were glad to get back again to their old homes, or as if, as 
 Jessie Graham says her grandmother told her, they were 
 thanking God for giving them such pleasant weather. I 
 wish all little girls would remember this, and imitate the
 
 52 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 birds, thanking their Heavenly Father for his goodness to 
 them, not only in words when they kneel down to say their 
 prayers, but in bright looks and cheerful tones through the 
 whole day. 
 
 Jessie Graham is a very clever little girl, and very like 
 a bird herself as she goes singing and jumping about when 
 she is out of doors, though at home she is the most quiet, 
 orderly, housewifely little thing you can imagine. Her 
 grandmother, of whom I have just spoken, is a Scotchwo 
 man. She is a widow, her husband having died soon after 
 they came to this country, and when her only child, Jes 
 sie's father, was still a little boy. Mrs. Graham seemed 
 to have nothing to live on but what she could make by her 
 own spinning and knitting, her gardening and poultry yard. 
 Yet she never asked alms, or even received them when of 
 fered, saying to those who would have given them, " I am 
 thankful to God for showing me that when the time of 
 need comes I shall have such kind friends, but still more 
 thankful to Him that it has not come yet." Her garden 
 was small, but in it were often the earliest and best vege 
 tables that were to be seen for miles around. Some of these 
 she would send by little Donald to the market of a neigh 
 boring town. Donald too had his bed of flowers, from 
 which he was sometimes able to sell slips of roses or a few 
 choice bulbous roots. Seeds and slips and roots to plant 
 were given him by my brother's gardener, who had em 
 ployed the lad, and had, as he said, " taken a liking" to 
 him, because he had found him honest, industrious, and in 
 telligent. With his instructions, Donald became a capital 
 gardener, and when he afterwards removed to the city, 
 was employed by my brother in his place. With the wa 
 ges which he thus received, Donald was able to add to his 
 garden, till with some work from himself and constant 
 watchfulness from his mother, it became quite profitable. 
 He enlarged their cottage, too, so that when he brought 
 home a wife there was room enough for her without taking 
 any thing from his mother's comfort. His wife was a 
 good-tempered and kind-hearted young woman whom he 
 had known from a boy. They have six children, of whom 
 Jessie is the eldest. She is named after her grandmother; 
 and as she is almost always at her side, has learned many 
 useful things from her besides imitating the birds in keep-
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 53 
 
 ing a thankful and a cheerful heart. She is constantly busy, 
 sometimes helping her grandmother in her housekeep 
 ing, or counting her eggs, or feeding her chickens for her, 
 sometimes sewing beside her mother, or taking care of 
 her young brothers and sisters, sometimes and I think this 
 is what Jessie likes best running after her father, and by 
 his direction weeding a bed or tying up a branch, picking 
 the strawberries or making up into bouquets the flowers 
 which he is to take to market. She has the family taste 
 for gardening, and has already learned from her father a 
 great deal more about plants than their names. Harriet 
 goes to her always for instruction about the management 
 of her flowers, and if a friend sends me a rare plant, is 
 never quite satisfied till Jessie has approved the soil in 
 which it is placed. It is from Jessie that I learn, in the 
 spring, where the most beautiful wild-flowers are to be 
 found. 
 
 A stroll in the woods after these wild-flowers is one of 
 the greatest treats I can offer to my young favorites ; and 
 when, about a year ago, I sent to several of them to come 
 to my house on a fine, bright morning, prepared for one of 
 these rambles, with thick shoes which would keep their 
 feet dry if we went into low or damp places, and little bas 
 kets in which to put their flowers, I was very sure there 
 was not one who would disappoint me. They all came, 
 and Jessie the earliest and the gayest among them. She 
 had brought her father's trowel to take up the roots, and 
 away we all went, the little ones talking as fast and 
 laughing as loud as they could, and Aunt Kitty listening, 
 as much pleased as any of them. Away we went, not 
 by the road, but through the woods, now moving swiftly 
 and pleasantly along under the high trees, with the sun 
 light falling only here and there in patches on our path, 
 then suddenly hedged up by the tangled brushwood, and 
 obliged to climb or jump over, or to creep through, as some 
 of the smallest of the party managed to do, the children 
 now filling their baskets with buttercups, then throwing 
 them all away because they had found a piece of ground 
 covered with violets. At last, when the baskets were filled 
 with the roots of violets and wood-geraniums, and each one 
 had gathered branches of the wild-rose and clusters of the 
 rich and graceful columbine, Aunt Kitty remembering that 
 
 5*
 
 54 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 they had yet to walk home, gave the signal to return, and 
 half unwillingly it was obeyed. After leaving the wood, we 
 followed a road which enabled me to leave my young com 
 panions at their different homes before I went on to mine. 
 Mr. Graham's was the last house on our way, and there Har 
 riet and Mary Mackay and I stopped with Jessie, as I saw 
 her father was at home and wanted to speak to him about 
 some seeds. Old Mrs. Graham was seated in the low, 
 shaded porch, knitting, and there I left the children show 
 ing her their treasures, while I stepped into the garden 
 where Mr. Graham was at work. Having finished my 
 talk with him I went into the house again. The children 
 were still in the porch ; and as I entered the parlor that 
 opened on it, I heard Mary Mackay 's earnest tone wish 
 ing that she could walk in the woods and pick flowers 
 every day. 
 
 " Why, Mary !" said Harriet, " what then would be 
 come of your books and Miss Bennett ?" this was the 
 name of Mary's governess. 
 
 "I would not care what became of them," said Mary, 
 hastily, then added : " Oh yes, I would care what became 
 of Miss Bennett, but as for the books " 
 
 " Send them to me, Mary," said Jessie, " send them to 
 me, if you are tired of them, and send Miss Bennett with 
 them." 
 
 " Why, Jessie, do you want to study lessons ?" 
 
 " I don't know about the studying, Mary, how I should 
 like that, but I would be willing to try, rather than be a 
 poor ignorant girl without any schooling, as Nancy Orme 
 called me the other day." 
 
 I saw old Mrs. Graham turn quickly round at this, and 
 heard her ask Jessie, " And what did you say to Nancy 
 Orme ?" 
 
 " Nothing, grandmother, what could I say to her ? It 
 is the truth, you know." 
 
 " It is not the truth," said Mrs. Graham, " and you are a 
 silly child to say so." 
 
 " Why, grandmother, what schooling have I ever had ? 
 You have taught me to read, and father has begun to teach 
 me to write, and that is all I know or am like to know." 
 
 " You are a silly child, Jessie, as I said before. You 
 have had the schooling which is better for little Jessie
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 55 
 
 Graham, the gardener's daughter, than any that Miss Ben 
 nett and her books could give." 
 
 Mary, who really loved Miss Bennett, colored up, and 
 Mrs. Graham said to her, " Do not be vexed, my little lady, 
 for I mean no offence. Miss Mary Mackay, who is to be a 
 young lady, and must talk to ladies and gentlemen, cannot 
 do without books and Miss Bennett to explain them. And 
 I do not mean to say that book-learning hurts anybody, but 
 only that Jessie, and poor little folks like Jessie, can do 
 without it, and yet that they must not call themselves with 
 out schooling ; for what schooling they really want, God 
 takes care that they may have." 
 
 The girls looked puzzled, and as I had become quite in 
 terested in what the old woman was saying, I was not sorry 
 when my inquisitive little niece, Mary, exclaimed, " Pray, 
 Mrs. Graham, tell me what you mean, for I cannot see 
 what schooling little girls have who do not learn out of 
 books." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Graham, putting down her 
 knitting, taking off her spectacles, and looking very thought 
 ful, " I do not know whether I can tell you just what I 
 mean, so that you can understand me, but I will try. I 
 think God means that every father and mother shall be 
 teachers to their own children, or if the father and mother 
 are dead, there is almost always some friend who is bound 
 to take their place, and then he spreads out books on every 
 side of them, so that they are almost obliged to read, unless 
 they wilfully shut their eyes ; for if they look up, there 
 is the sun in the day and the moon and stars at night, and 
 though they cannot tell, as I am told some great scholars 
 can do, how far off they are, and what the stars are named, 
 they can see how much good they do to us, lighting and 
 warming us, and dividing the year into seasons, which, 
 everybody who knows any thing of gardening knows, is a 
 great good, and making day and night. They can learn 
 out of this book, too, a great deal of God's power and glory, 
 for he must keep all these in their places, and make them 
 all come back to us day after day, and night after night, 
 and year after year, without ever failing once. Then, when 
 they look down on the ground, there is another beautiful 
 book. They may not be able to call every thing there by 
 its right name, but they may learn what is good to eat, and
 
 56 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 what for medicine, and what is only pretty to the eye, 
 what soil each plant loves, and how God has provided for 
 each just what is best for it. And so, if they look at the 
 birds, or the poultry, or the different animals, they will find 
 each kind has its own ways, and from each one they may 
 learn as many useful things as from any book that was 
 ever made. Now, my dear young ladies, this is the 
 schooling which God provides for us all, and though, as I 
 said before, learning from books is very good, yet those who 
 cannot get it need not be altogether ignorant, and of the 
 two, maybe God's schooling is best for poor people." 
 
 Though I was very much pleased with what Mrs. 
 Graham said, I was afraid my little girls would begin to 
 think very slightingly of books, so I stepped out, and telling 
 them that it was time to go home, they gathered up their 
 flowers, and bidding Mrs. Graham and Jessie good-morning, 
 we set out. I waited a while, hoping that, as they did not 
 know I had overheard Mrs. Graham, they would speak to 
 me of what she had said. And so they did ; for I had not 
 waited long, when Mary said, " Aunt Kitty, do you not 
 think Mrs. Graham is a very sensible woman ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear," I replied, " I do think she is a very 
 sensible woman." 
 
 " I wish you could have heard her, Aunt Kitty, talking 
 about Jessie's schooling I liked what she said so much." 
 
 "And what did she say, Mary ?" 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Kitty, I cannot remember half but she said 
 little girls need not study books." 
 
 " Not all little girls, Mary," said Harriet, interrupting 
 her. 
 
 " Well, Harriet, not all little girls, but she said that 
 little girls who could not study books, might still have 
 schooling, for God gave them teachers, and then they 
 might look at the stars, and the flowers, and the birds, and 
 all the animals, and learn, Aunt Kitty, just as well as we 
 do out of books, and I am sure it must be a much pleasanter 
 way of learning." 
 
 "But how many little girls are there, Mary, do you 
 think, who, if they had never studied books or been di 
 rected by such sensible teachers as Mrs. Graham herself, 
 would look at the stars, and the flowers, and the birds, and 
 learn from them all which they can teach ? Unless we
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 57 
 
 see something more in these than their bright light, their 
 pretty colors, or their gay plumage, they will teach us 
 little, and it is generally from books or from some person 
 who has had what Mrs. Graham calls book-learning, that 
 we learn to look deeper." 
 
 " How did Mrs. Graham come to know so much about 
 them then, Aunt Kitty, for I do not think she reads many 
 books ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Graham, my dear Mary, has been accustomed 
 to associate with people much better educated than herself, 
 and as she is a very observing and thoughtful person, she 
 has lost no opportunity of learning. And now, Mary, you 
 see that book-learning is of more use than you ever before 
 thought it, for the person who has it, may help to open the 
 eyes of many who have it not, to read what God has written 
 for us all in the heavens and the earth." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SCHOOL. 
 
 THE next morning before Harriet and I had breakfasted, 
 Mary came running in, her cheeks glowing and eyes 
 sparkling with pleasure, crying out even before she had 
 said good-morning, " Aunt Kitty, Jessie is to go to school 
 with me and study lessons, she is to begin to-day, and I 
 am going to tell her to get ready at once, so I have not a 
 minute to stay." 
 
 " Stop, stop, my dear," said I, seizing her hand as she 
 was passing me, "just catch your breath and then tell us 
 how all this was arranged." 
 
 " Oh, I told Miss Bennett how much Jessie wanted to go 
 to school, and she said she might come if my father had 
 not any objection, and I asked my father, and he said he 
 had not any, but I must go, Aunt Kitty, indeed I must," 
 and breaking away from me, she bounded off. 
 
 She soon came back bringing the smiling Jessie with 
 her, and from that day Jessie might be seen every morn-
 
 } 
 
 58 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 ing about nine o'clock going to her school. She spent only 
 two hours there each day, but as she really wished to learn, 
 she improved very much, and Miss Bennett said, she repaid 
 her for all trouble in teaching her, by her good example to 
 our good-humored but wild little Mary. Jessie seemed to 
 think she could never say or do enough to thank Mary for 
 inducing Miss Bennett to give her lessons, and though Mary 
 loved Jessie, and would never let any one find the least 
 fault with her without a warm defence, I sometimes feared 
 that Jessie's perfect submission to her will in all things 
 would do her harm that she would become quite a little 
 despot. But a circumstance which happened in their school 
 a short time after Jessie's lessons with Miss Bennett began, 
 taught us that there was one thing Jessie loved better even 
 than she loved Mary. I will relate the circumstance, and 
 you will find out what that one thing was. 
 
 Mary's father had a fine flock of sheep, and one morn 
 ing as Mary stood by him while he counted them, watch 
 ing the lambs frisking from side to side, Jessie came from 
 the house to tell her that Miss Bennett had been waiting 
 some time for her. 
 
 " Stay just one minute, Jessie, and then I will go back 
 with you," said the little idler ; " I want papa to be done 
 counting, that I may beg him for a little lamb I want a 
 pet lamb. See there, Jessie that one that is running along 
 so fast, and then stops to wait for the others, is not it a 
 beauty ? Oh ! do, papa, give it to me," said she, as her 
 father counted the thirtieth sheep, for she knew that this 
 was the full number. 
 
 " Give you what, my child ?" asked her father, who had 
 not been paying any attention to her. 
 
 " That pretty lamb, papa make haste to say yes, for 
 there is Miss Bennett's bell ringing for the third time. Stop, 
 Jessie," said the little despot, catching hold of her as she 
 would have run in, " you shall not go till I am ready." 
 
 " I am sorry my daughter should let any thing keep her 
 from her lessons. Besides, you are treating Miss Bennett 
 with great disrespect, and here she comes herself to see 
 what has become of her truants." 
 
 As Mr. Mackay spoke, he took Mary's hand and walked 
 with the children towards the piazza where Miss Bennett 
 stood. He is a very good-natured man, and makes such a
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 59 
 
 pet of his little daughter, that he was quite ready to ex 
 cuse her ; so, as Miss Bennett was about to speak to Mary, 
 he said, " I believe, Miss Bennett, I must ask you to ex 
 cuse her want of punctuality to-day, for the fault was 
 partly mine. If I had not been as much engaged in count 
 ing my sheep as she was in watching the lambs at play, I 
 should have heard your bell and sent her to you." 
 
 " I do not wish to punish the fault of to-day," said Miss 
 Bennett, with a smile, " but to reform a habit persisted in 
 for many days. Can you not aid me, sir, in devising some 
 mode by which Mary may be reminded that her studies are 
 of more importance than her play ?" 
 
 " Yes, she has just been presenting a petition which I 
 will not grant till she can bring me proof that she has been 
 punctual and attentive to her studies for two months." 
 
 " Two whole months, papa ?" said Mary, looking quite 
 frightened at the length of time. 
 
 " Yes, my daughter, two whole months, and stay, where 
 is Jessie ?" looking around for her. 
 
 " Stolen away, I suppose," said Miss Bennett, " for fear 
 of hearing Mary scolded. We shall probably find her in 
 the schoolroom." 
 
 " Well, I will go there with you," said Mr. Mackay, en 
 tering the house with the wondering Mary. On they went, 
 Miss Bennett leading the way to the schoolroom, where, 
 as she had conjectured, they found Jessie, looking very 
 gravely. 
 
 " Do not be afraid, Jessie," said Mary, laughing, as she 
 entered, " Miss Bennett has not beaten me. Papa is going 
 to do something to us both, I think, but I do not know 
 what." 
 
 " You shall soon hear," said Mr. Mackay. " If Miss 
 Bennett will be so kind as to give to the one who recites 
 the best lesson a card marked merit ; and to the one who 
 is not in her place by the time the bell has ceased ringing, 
 a blank card, for two months to come, we will then count 
 both kinds of tickets : for every blank card we will take 
 away one from the others, and to the little girl who has 
 most merit cards left, I will give listen, Mary the pret 
 tiest lamb in my flock." 
 
 " I will gladly agree to perform my part in the arrange 
 ment," said Miss Bennett, " but will add another stipula-
 
 60 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 tion. As I would have my little pupils careful, as well as stu 
 dious and attentive, I will make no note of the tickets given 
 for merit, and the girl who loses her tickets will therefore 
 suffer the consequences." 
 
 " Do you understand ?" said Mr. Mackay. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Mary, eagerly clapping her hands, " and 
 I mean to have the lamb." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the smiling Jessie pleased to see her 
 friend so happy. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Mackay, as he left the schoolroom, 
 "you will begin to-morrow." 
 
 For some time Miss Bennett had no blanks to give and 
 few merit cards, for the girls were always in their places 
 at the proper time, and both knew their lessons so perfectly 
 that it could not with truth be said either was best. After 
 some weeks, however, things fell into their old course. 
 Mary got most blanks, and most merit cards too, for though 
 Jessie was both quick and studious, she had less time for stu 
 dy ; and what is of more consequence, she had no one at home 
 to help her out of difficulties by explaining what she did 
 not understand. Besides, as Mary had been much longer 
 at school than her friend, the lessons which she was going 
 over for the second, or perhaps third time, were quite new 
 to Jessie, who felt her friend's advantages on this account 
 to be so great that she never dreamed there was any prob 
 ability of receiving the prize herself. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MARY MOHE GENEROUS THAN JUST. 
 
 HARRIET and I, walking over one pleasant afternoon to 
 my brother's, met Jessie sauntering slowly home, and Ma 
 ry with her. We stopped to chat a while with them, and 
 then Mary, bidding Jessie good-by, turned back with us. 
 While I walked steadily on, she and Harriet were some 
 times by my side, sometimes running before me, and some 
 times lingering far behind. As we approached the house,
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 61 
 
 we saw the sheep driven to their pen for the night. The 
 children were before me, but near enough for me to bear 
 Mary exclaim, " Harriet, there is my lamb that is the 
 one I mean to choose if it does not grow too large before 
 the time." 
 
 " Maybe you will not have to choose at all," said Har 
 riet, " for Jessie may get it." 
 
 " Indeed she will not," said Mary. 
 
 "How do you know that ?" asked Harriet, " only one 
 month is gone. I wish she may get it." 
 
 " I do not think that is very kind of you," said Mary, 
 " to wish that Jessie should get it instead of me, when you 
 know I want the lamb so much." 
 
 " Why, Mary," said Harriet, "though you may not get 
 it just at this particular time, you know your father would 
 give you one afterwards if you asked for it, and poor Jessie 
 may never have another chance to get one. Besides, I 
 think it will do her a great deal more good than you." 
 
 " I do not see how," said Mary, still in a dissatisfied 
 tone. 
 
 " Why," said Harriet, " you know she knits her own 
 stockings, and her father has to buy wool now, she could 
 have the wool from her own lamb without paying any 
 thing for it." 
 
 "I never thought of that," said Mary, earnestly, while I 
 could not but smile at Harriet's forethought. " But, Har 
 riet, I should like to get the lamb," said Mary, after think 
 ing a while, " and then I could give it to Jessie, you know." 
 
 "But are you sure Jessie would take it from you ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! I could make her take it," said Mary, confi 
 dently. 
 
 " I do not know that," said Harriet, " if her grandmother 
 told her not ; and you know Aunt Kitty told us Mrs. Gra 
 ham never would take any thing for herself when she was 
 very poor." 
 
 " Well," said Mary, in a perplexed tone, "what shall I 
 do ? for I want her to have it now as much as you do, 
 since you put me in mind how much good it will do her. 
 Oh ! I will tell you, Harriet, what I will do ; I will not 
 study at all, and so I cannot get any merit cards, and I will 
 stay out late, and get all the blanks." 
 
 As I did not quite approve of Mary's very ingenious 
 6
 
 62 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 plan for obliging Jessie, I stepped up and said, " Do you 
 think that would be quite right to your papa and Miss 
 Bennett, who are trying by the offer of this reward to make 
 you more studious and punctual ?" 
 
 " Well, what shall I do, Aunt Kitty ?" 
 
 " Do your best, my dear, to win the reward, and let Jes 
 sie do the same. The habits you are thus forming will be 
 of far more consequence to you than the lamb to Jessie." 
 
 " But I want Jessie to have it," said Mary, whose gen 
 erous feelings had now been excited ; " besides, I do not 
 think it is a fair trial, for Jessie has so little time to study." 
 
 " Then, Mary, suppose you and Harriet go every day 
 and help her in her work at home, so that she may have 
 moi'e time for study." 
 
 " So we will," said Mary, with great animation, " that 
 is a real good plan ; and I will tell you what, Aunt Kitty,! 
 will study and get the tickets, since you say I ought, but 
 before Miss Bennett counts them, I will make Jessie take 
 some of my merit cards, and I will take some of her blanks, 
 so as to be sure that she will have the most ; so, you see, 
 I will have the good habits, and she will have the lamb 
 too. Will not that be clever ?" 
 
 " Very clever on your part, Mary, but I hope you will 
 not find it easy to make Jessie do a thing which in her 
 would be very wrong. Better lose the lamb than be dis 
 honest." 
 
 "Dishonest, Aunt Kitty !" 
 
 " Yes, Mary, would it not be dishonest in Jessie to get 
 the lamb by making your father and Miss Bennett believe 
 that tickets which are in reality vours, have been won by 
 her." 
 
 Mary looked quite grave for a minute, then brightening 
 up, said, " Well, Harriet, at any rate it is not wrong to help 
 Jessie, so I will come for you to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Very well," said Harriet, "I will go with you, and 
 when we have done all the work, I will help Jessie get her 
 lessons ; so, maybe, she may have the most tickets with 
 out taking yours." 
 
 Mary colored, and though she said nothing, I could not 
 help thinking that she would rather Jessie should get the 
 lamb by any other means than by having the most tickets.
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 63 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE DISAPPOINTMENT THE SECRET. 
 
 THE next morning Mary came over quite early for Har 
 riet, and they ran to Mr. Graham's full of glee ; but they 
 had been gone a very little while, when they came back 
 looking quite vexed. On my asking what was the matter, 
 Mary answered, " That cross Mr. Graham would not let 
 us do any thing." 
 
 " Why, Mary, I never heard Mr. Graham called cross 
 before." 
 
 " Well, Aunt Kitty, he was cross, for Jessie was very 
 glad to see us, and wanted us to help her pick strawberries, 
 and he would not let us do it, but said we would tread on 
 the vines, as if we never picked strawberries before." 
 
 " Perhaps, Mary, you never did pick them where it was 
 so important to be careful of the vines. You know Mr. 
 Graham's garden is his only means of support. But had 
 Jessie nothing else to do which you could have done for 
 her ?" 
 
 "I do not know," said Mary, "we were so vexed that 
 we would not ask to do any thing else." 
 
 " Do not say we, Mary," said Harriet, " for I would have 
 asked old Mrs. Graham to let me count the eggs and feed 
 the chickens, which Jessie said was all she had to do be 
 sides picking the strawberries, before school, but you were 
 so angry and talked so loud, that I thought it was better to 
 come away." 
 
 Mary looked very much ashamed, and hung her head, as 
 she said, " Well, Aunt Kitty, it is very hard when we mean 
 to do good to be scolded for it." 
 
 " And did Mr. Graham scold you, Mary ?" 
 
 "He looked cross at us, Aunt Kitty, if he did not scold." 
 
 " Mr. Graham might have looked not very well pleased, 
 at the thought of having his fine strawberry-plants tram 
 pled, and still have felt obliged by your kind feelings to 
 Jessie. But I fear that my little niece must have been
 
 64 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 thinking more of herself than of Jessie, more of the credit 
 which Mary Mackay deserved, than of the assistance she 
 was going to give, or she would not, because she found one 
 service declined, have been unwilling to offer to help her 
 friend in some other way." As I spoke I put my arm 
 around Mary and drew her to me. " Was it not so, 
 Mary ?" she hid her face on my shoulder and was silent, 
 " Think of it, Mary, and tell me if I am right." 
 
 In about a minute Mary raised her head, and said very 
 frankly, "Yes, Aunt Kitty, I believe you are right; and 
 now, if Harriet will go with me, I will go back and see if 
 we can do any thing else for Jessie." 
 
 But Harriet exclaimed, " We need not go, Mary, for here 
 is Jessie herself; and now we will tell her what we meant 
 to do, and if she would like it, we will go to-morrow." 
 
 Jessie was much pleased with the kind intentions of her 
 young friends, and assured them that they could help her 
 very much, for they could count the eggs, feed the chickens, 
 and put the kitchen pantry in order, all which she gener 
 ally did before coming to school. From this time Jessie 
 was able to study more, and with Harriet's aid, her lessons 
 were well learned. Still she gained few merit cards, for 
 Mary studied too, and was very punctual, seeming quite 
 in earnest about the prize, which she nevertheless declared, 
 steadily and positively, would be Jessie's. At this decla 
 ration Jessie only laughed, but Harriet seemed quite puz 
 zled, saying that she knew by Mary's looks she had some 
 plan in her head. And so it proved she had. The two 
 months which had seemed to Mary, when her father first 
 named them, so long, were ended at last. Two days be 
 fore the tickets were to be counted by Miss Bennett, Mary 
 begged Jessie to bring hers with her to school, that she 
 might see how many they would each have before they 
 were given in. 
 
 " It is of no use, Mary," said Jessie, " for I know exactly 
 how many I have, and I know you have more than twice 
 as many merit cards." 
 
 " I know I have more than twice as many blanks," said 
 Mary, " but that is nothing, Jessie. I want to see your 
 cards, and I think you might bring them when I ask you." 
 
 " And so I will bring them, Mary," said Jessie ; and 
 when she came the next morning she brought a neat little
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 65 
 
 box, which she held up to Mary as soon as she came in 
 sight, calling out, " Here are my cards." 
 
 " That is right, Jessie," said Mary ; " now you must 
 leave them with me, and to-morrow morning they will be 
 here ready for you." 
 
 " Well, Mary," said Jessie, as somewhat reluctantly she 
 gave them up, "take care of them, because though Tcan- 
 not get the lamb I would like Miss Bennett to see that I 
 have been careful of my cards as she wished us to be." 
 
 Mary promised, and put the box very carefully into a 
 basket where her own cards were kept. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 JESSIE'S TRUTH. 
 
 ON the day appointed, Harriet and I went over by Miss 
 Bennett's request, to see the prize delivered to her who 
 should be found to deserve it. A lamb had been chosen 
 by Mr. Mackay, and without telling Mary any thing of it, 
 he had had a small silver collar engraved, "reward of merit." 
 After the lamb had been washed as white as snow, this had 
 been put on it, and a blue riband tied to the collar by which 
 the lamb might be led, so that Jessie, should she win it, 
 would have no difficulty in getting it home. As I entered 
 my brother's house, I met Jessie and Mary in the piazza. 
 Mary was talking very earnestly, and I heard her say, 
 " There is your box, Jessie. Don't open it till you give it 
 to papa." 
 
 " But I must open it, Mary. I want to divide the cards, 
 so as not to give Mr. Mackay much trouble." 
 
 " Nonsense, Jessie what does papa care for trouble ? 
 You must not open it, I tell you. I have counted the cards, 
 and you will have the lamb." 
 
 " Mary, how can you laugh at me so ? you know that I 
 cannot get it." 
 
 At this moment Mary was called away by her mother, 
 6*
 
 66 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 I had watched her closely, and I thought I could see some 
 roguery in the demure smile which played around her 
 mouth, in spite of her evident efforts to be serious. As 
 soon as she was out of sight, Jessie seated herself on the 
 steps and took out her tickets. They were already made 
 into parcels, and I saw her turn her eyes with a wondering 
 look from one to the other, then she loosed the string which 
 tied each parcel together, counted them rapidly, and then, 
 dropping them into the box, said, " What does this 
 mean ?" 
 
 I began to be quite interested in this little mystery, of 
 which I suspected Mary knew more than anybody else, so 
 when I went into the schoolroom, I took my seat at a win 
 dow, the sash of which was raised, and which overlooked 
 the piazza, and kept my eye on Jessie. I was scarcely 
 seated before Mary ran up to her. As soon as she was 
 near enough to see the box opened and the cards loosed, 
 she cried out in a vexed tone, " And so, Jessie, you would 
 open the box after all ?" 
 
 " Oh, Mary !" said Jessie, " it is the strangest thing my 
 blank cards are almost all gone, and here are a great 
 many more merit cards than I had. Where can they come 
 from ?" 
 
 Mary seemed very much amused, and said, " Why, Jes 
 sie, I think a good fairy must have put them there." 
 
 Jessie looked up into her laughing face for a moment, 
 and then said, " Now, Mary, I know how it came you put 
 them there just to tease me. Make haste and let us get 
 them right before they call us. I ought to have ten merit 
 cards and four blanks, and here are only two blanks and 
 seventeen merit cards. Take yours, Mary, and give me 
 mine quick before Miss Bennett calls us." 
 
 As she spoke, she held out the box, but Mary stepped 
 back, saying very positively, " Indeed, Jessie, I will not do 
 any such thing." 
 
 Jessie looked at her a moment, and seeing by her coun 
 tenance that she was resolved not to do it, turned round, 
 saying, " Well, I must go and tell your father just how 
 it is." 
 
 She went towards the door, but before she reached it, 
 Mary caught her and drew her back, saying, as she did so, 
 " Jessie, if you say a word to my father or Miss Bennett
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 67 
 
 or anybody about it, I will never play with you again or 
 love you, as long as I live." 
 
 Her face was red, and she spoke in a very angry tone. 
 
 " Oh ! don't talk so, Mary," said Jessie, " please don't 
 talk so. You would not have me tell your father a story, 
 and it would be just like telling him a story if I gave him 
 your cards for mine." 
 
 " You need not give them to him," said Mary, " I will 
 do it myself, and Aunt Kitty said it would not be any harm 
 in me to do it. I told you that you would have the lamb, 
 and I am determined you shall have it." 
 
 " But I don't want it," said Jessie ; " I hate the lamb, and 
 I don't want it." 
 
 " It is very ungrateful in you to say so, and I know you 
 do it just to vex me. I know you cannot help wanting that 
 pretty little lamb with its silver collar ; and then it would 
 please your father and mother and grandmother so much 
 to see the reward of merit on it." 
 
 " But what good would their being pleased do me when 
 I knew I had told a story to get it?" said Jessie mourn, 
 fully. 
 
 " You are very obstinate, Jessie," said Mary ; " did not 
 I tell you that you need not say a word, and that I would 
 give papa the cards myself so how can you tell a story 
 about -it ? Besides, I will tell him the whole truth by-and- 
 by, when I have had my fun out." 
 
 " Will you, Mary, will you tell him the whole truth 
 and is it only just for fun'?" 
 
 " To be sure it is, or I would not say so, so now, Jes 
 sie, give me the cards at once like a good girl, and I will 
 love you so dearly," kissing her as she spoke, " and just 
 go in the schoolroom quietly, and look as sober as you can 
 while they are counting them." 
 
 With a reluctant hand Jessie gave up the box, saying, 
 " Remember, Mary, it is just for fun, and you will tell your 
 father before I go home." 
 
 " I will tell him in the right time," said Mary ; " but 
 if you do not make Jhaste into the schoolroom we will 
 not be there in the right time," and she ran quickly 
 and joyously in while Jessie followed more slowly and 
 timidly. 
 
 Mary went straight to her father, who sal with Miss
 
 68 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 Bennett near a table, and gave him first a parcel contain, 
 ing her own cards, then handing him the box, said, " Jes 
 sie's are in this box, papa." Her father took them, smi 
 lingly, from her, and she then came and stood by Jessie, 
 who had placed herself not far from me. The cards were 
 counted. In Mary's parcel were twenty merit cards and 
 eight blanks, which, taken from the others, left her only 
 twelve. Jessie, it was found, had only two blanks to be 
 taken from seventeen merit canls ; she could therefore 
 count fifteen, and the lamb was declared to be hers. I had 
 looked steadily upon her while my brother and Miss Ben 
 nett were counting, and I saw that she looked very pale, 
 except once when she caught Miss Bennett's eye, and then 
 her face became very red, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 As my brother said, " Jessie has won the prize," she 
 looked imploringly at Mary and whispered, " Now, Mary 
 please, Mary, tell him now," but Mary turned away 
 and seemed not to hear her. 
 
 My brother went into the next room and led in the lamb. 
 
 Again I heard Jessie's pleading tones, " Now, Mary 
 please, Mary, now," but Mary said nothing. 
 
 The lamb was led up to Jessie, and my brother, saying 
 to her, " Here is your prize, my good little girl, which you 
 have well deserved," would have put the riband into her 
 hand, but instead of taking it, she covered her face with 
 her hands and sobbed out, " I cannot take it, sir indeed I 
 cannot take it, for it is not mine, it is Mary's, and I must 
 tell if she should be ever so angry with me." 
 
 Mr. Mackay looked around as for some one to ex 
 plain Jessie's meaning, but as no one said any thing, he 
 again addressed himself to Jessie herself: " But, my dear, 
 why should you not take it ? Perhaps you think, because 
 Mary had most merit cards, the lamb should have been 
 hers, but you must remember, she had so mahy more 
 blanks to be taken from them, that they left her with less 
 than you. As for Mary's being angry with you, I am 
 sure you need not be afraid of that, Mary is not so selfish 
 and unjust as to be angry with her friend for doing better 
 than herself." 
 
 " Oh no, sir ! that is not it Mary wanted me to have 
 the lamb, but " 
 
 Jessie stopped, and Miss Bennett now came up to Mr.
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 69 
 
 Mackay and said, " I believe I can explain this. Jessie 
 is very properly grieved at having done a very wrong 
 thing. You may remember that I said I would keep no 
 account of the merit cards given, in order to induce the 
 children to be careful, but Jessie seems to have forgotten 
 that I did not say the same of the blanks ; of these I did 
 take note, and I am grieved to find, on reference to my 
 memorandum, that two of Jessie's blanks have been added 
 to Mary's." 
 
 Miss Bennett spoke in a very grave tone, and looked at 
 Jessie very severely. She would have said something 
 more, but Mary who, half ashamed and half angry, had 
 stood with her eyes cast down and the corners of her mouth 
 twitching as if she were just ready to cry now looked up 
 and interrupted her by exclaiming, " You are very wrong 
 indeed, Miss Bennett, to think Jessie had any thing to do 
 with it. It was I that did it, on purpose that Jessie might 
 have the lamb, and she never knew a word of it till just as 
 we came in, and then she begged me to tell, and I would 
 not. So there it is all told now and the next time I try 
 to give anybody any thing, it shall be some one who will be 
 more grateful for it than Jessie." 
 
 Poor Jessie ! she cried as if her heart would break, and 
 tried to take Mary's hand while she said, " Indeed, indeed, 
 Mary, I could not help it." 
 
 But Mary would not be coaxed she withdrew her hand 
 and turned sullenly away. Mr. Mackay looked at her sor 
 rowfully, then stooping down he unclasped the collar from 
 the lamb's neck, and tying the riband in its. place, held it 
 to her while he said, " You have won the prize, Mary, 
 take it but I must take ofF the collar. I cannot give a 
 reward of merit to a girl who thinks a lamb more valuable 
 than truth and honesty." 
 
 It was now Mary's turn to weep and Jessie's to defend 
 her. " Oh ! Sir, do not blame Mary it was all from kind 
 ness to me, sir indeed it was and you know, sir, Mary 
 would not tell a story for any thing in the world." 
 
 " And yet Mary wished you, Jessie, to tell a story, and 
 to take what you knew did not justly belong to you, and 
 now is angry with you because you were not willing to do 
 so. Either Mary is not very kind to you, or, as I said be 
 fore, she values more the lamb she would have given you,
 
 70 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 than the truth and honesty she would have had you give 
 up for it." 
 
 Jessie was silenced for a minute, and though Mary con 
 tinued to weep, it was more gently. Mr. Mackay stood 
 before the children, still holding the lamb, which Mary 
 seemed as little disposed to take as Jessie, and looking 
 very gravely. At length Jessie raised her eyes to him and 
 said, " I do not think Mary is angry with me because I 
 would not take the lamb, sir ; she is only a little vexed be 
 cause I did not do as she wanted me to." 
 
 We all smiled as Jessie said this, and Mr. Mackay an 
 swered, " I believe you are quite right, my dear little girl," 
 then, putting his hand on Mary's head, he added, " My 
 daughter, we will leave you alone for a little while, to 
 think whether you are most sorry that Jessie Graham has 
 lost the prize, or that Mary Mackay has not had her own 
 way altogether." 
 
 He was turning away when Mary spoke, though in so 
 low a tone that no one could hear her. Mr. Mackay, put 
 ting his head down to her, asked what she said, and she 
 repeated, " I do not think it was wrong in me to want Jes 
 sie to get the lamb and to give her my cards that she might 
 get it." 
 
 " Are you quite sure, Mary, that you did wish Jessie to 
 win the prize ? Do you think you would have been pleased 
 that she should have got the lamb in any other way than 
 by your giving it to her ? Still, however this may be, the 
 wish to give it was generous, and far from thinking it 
 wrong, I am more pleased with it in my daughter, than 
 even with her' studiousness and punctuality; but, was it 
 right in you, when your kind intention could not be ac 
 complished without a very wrong action in Jessie, to wish 
 that she should do it, and to be angry with her because she 
 would not ? Ought you to have thought so much more of 
 your generosity than of Jessie's truth ?" Mr. Mackay 
 waited a little while for an answer, then said, " Speak, 
 Mary was this right ?" 
 
 While her father had been speaking to her, Mary had 
 ceased to weep, though she still kept her head down, and 
 her face covered with her hands. Even now she could not 
 lift her eyes, though she raised her head a little as she said, 
 almost in a whisper, " No, papa."
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 71 
 
 Jessie, whose eyes had been fixed upon Mary with the 
 most earnest, anxious look you can imagine, now put her 
 arm quickly around her neck, exclaiming in a joyful tone, 
 " Then, Mary, you will not be vexed with me any more, 
 will you ?" 
 
 " No, Jessie," said Mary, kissing her, " it was very 
 wicked in me to be vexed with you just because you were 
 good." 
 
 " Now, my dear Mary," said Mr. Mackay, " in taking 
 blame for your own fault, and giving to your friend the 
 credit she deserves, you are indeed generous, and I may- 
 now put back the lamb's collar you merit the reward." 
 
 As he spoke, he kissed both the little girls. Mary sprang 
 into her father's arms and hid her face on his shoulder. 
 As she did so, I saw that there were tears in her eyes, yet 
 she smiled and looked very happy. In a little while she 
 looked up, and seeing Jessie seated on the floor playing 
 with the lamb, said, laughing, "Why, Jessie, I thought 
 you hated the lamb." 
 
 " Not now, Mary," said Jessie, " I love it now." 
 
 And now it will be easy for my little readers to see 
 that the one thing which Jessie loved more than Mary was 
 "Truth." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE COW. 
 
 IT was but a few weeks after this, that, as Harriet and I 
 were one evening passing Mr. Graham's house, we saw a 
 man tying a rope around the neck of his fine cow, which 
 was noted everywhere for her gentleness and for the quan 
 tity of milk she gave. In the yard, not far from the cow, 
 stood Mr. Graham. He was looking very serious, but did 
 not say any thing. But poor Jessie ! her arm was over 
 the cow's neck and her face rested against her side, while 
 she sobbed so loudly that we heard her before we reached 
 the gate. As I did not quite understand what was going
 
 72 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 on, I hesitated a little about entering, but Mr. Graham saw 
 me, and stepping up opened the gate. As I went in, I said 
 to him, " What is the matter with my friend Jessie ?" 
 
 He tried to smile as he replied, " Only parting with the 
 cow, ma'am. It is very foolish in her to take on so ; but 
 she has always fed her, and so the creature knows and 
 follows her, and Jessie feels as if she was just like a 
 friend." 
 
 " But why are you parting with your cow, Mr. Gra 
 ham ?" 
 
 Mr. Graham colored and turned a little away from me 
 as he said, " It is not just convenient to me to keep her at 
 present, ma'am." 
 
 I saw from his manner that it would pain him to have 
 me ask further about his reasons for selling her. Sup 
 posing that the cow was already sold, I asked who had 
 bought her. 
 
 " Nobody yet, ma'am," said Mr. Graham, " I am only 
 sending her to town to be sold." 
 
 " Then I am very glad I came here before she went," said 
 I, " for I should like very much to own her, and I will give 
 you gladly whatever you expected to get for her in town." 
 
 Jessie looked up at this, and as she saw her father hesi 
 tate, cried out, " Oh yes ! do, father, sell her to Aunt Kitty, 
 and I can see poor Mooly sometimes ; and then too, if you 
 are ever rich enough to buy her back, I know she will let 
 you have her again." 
 
 " You are a foolish thing," said Mr. Graham, as he put 
 his hand kindly on Jessie s head, for we had walked to 
 gether to the cow then turning to me, he told me he would 
 be very glad to sell the cow to one who he knew would use 
 her well. The business was soon arranged. The cow 
 was to be taken home at once to my house ; but she need 
 not be tied, for Jessie would lead her there, and there was 
 no difficulty in getting her to follow Jessie. Mr. Graham 
 went along with us too, to receive his money. Before Jes 
 sie left us I begged her to feed the cow for me. 
 
 " That I will, ma'am," said the delighted girl, " and if 
 you will let me, I will come every evening and give her 
 her supper, for I am sure she will like it better, if she takes 
 it from me." 
 
 " I shall be very much obliged to you, Jessie, and as
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 73 
 
 your friend Mooly may not be quite so gentle with stran 
 gers as with you, if you will come over and keep her quiet 
 when she is milked in the morning, you will be doing me 
 a favor, and then you can carry back the cup of warm 
 milk which Harriet tells me your grandmother drinks eve 
 ry morning." 
 
 Jessie looked at me for a moment with a happy smile, 
 and then said, " Oh, ma'am ! how glad I am that you 
 walked by our house this evening. This will be almost 
 as good as having Mooly at home ourselves." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SORROW AND SYMPATHY. 
 
 I COULD not easily forget poor Jessie's distress, and I 
 found myself often thinking what could have made Mr. 
 Graham sell so good a cow. Surely, I said to myself, it 
 cannot be that he is poorer than he has been, and in want 
 of money which he could not get in any other way. I 
 knew that he had had rheumatism so badly during the past 
 winter, that he had not been able to get out to work till 
 quite late in the spring ; but, notwithstanding this, as the 
 seasons had been favorable, his garden did not seem to 
 have suffered much. Besides, his family were so prudent 
 and industrious, that I thought they always spent less in 
 the year than he made, and so, that he was able every year 
 to lay up some money against worse times. Jessie came 
 over every morning to see her friend Mooly milked, and to 
 take a mug of milk to her grandmother, which Harriet 
 took care should be large enough to give the children some 
 milk with their breakfasts. In the evening she was al 
 ways ready to give Mooly her supper ; and as I saw her, 
 day after day, come skipping and singing along, I felt com 
 forted about her father's circumstances, for I was sure that 
 Jessie at least had not heard of his being in any great dis 
 tress or difficulty. One morning a servant came to me to 
 ask whether Jessie should be waited for, as it was, she 
 
 7
 
 74 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 tsaid, quite time the milking was done, and Jessie was not 
 yet in sight. 
 
 " Oh yes ! pray, Aunt Kitty, wait," said Harriet, " she 
 will be here presently, I am sure she will just wait five 
 minutes." 
 
 As she spoke, she ran to the window to watch for Jes 
 sie, and soon called out, " Here's Jessie ; but how slow she 
 comes! Do, Aunt Kitty, look! You said, the other day, 
 Jessie never walked, and I am sure she is walking now as 
 slowly as her grandmother could. Why, now, she has 
 stopped and turned around as if she was not coming at 
 all. Why, I do believe she is crying ! What can be the 
 matter ?" 
 
 She darted out of the room as she finished speaking, and 
 when I reached the window through which she had been 
 looking, she was already standing beside Jessie with her 
 arm around her, talking to her. For a long time Jessie 
 did not speak, but when she did, she seemed very much in 
 earnest, while Harriet listened with an expression of the 
 most eager interest. At length Jessie's story, whatever it 
 was, was ended, and Harriet seemed to have comforted 
 her, for she wiped her eyes, and looked more cheerful as 
 they passed the window where I stood, walking hand in 
 hand to the yard where the cow and the dairywoman were 
 waiting for them. In a little while, Jessie passed by again 
 on her way home. As she dropped a courtesy to me and 
 wished me good-morning, I saw that her eyes were still 
 red and her face swollen with weeping, though she had 
 pushed her bonnet entirely off her head, that the cool breeze 
 might take away the inflammation. Jessie was such a 
 merry-hearted child that I felt it could be no trifling thing 
 which had distressed her so much ; yet I would not ask 
 Harriet any thing about it, because I was sure she would 
 speak of it herself, if Jessie had not made her promise to 
 keep it secret, and if she had, I would have been sorry 
 that she should do any thing so dishonorable as to mention 
 it. There was a servant in the room when she came in, 
 and I saw that Harriet was quite restless during the few 
 minutes that she stayed. As soon as she went out, Har 
 riet closed the door after her and began, " Oh, Aunt Kitty ! 
 I am so sorry. Jessie is going away, and Mr. Graham 
 and all going to some far-off place in the West. And
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 75 
 
 Jessie says her father has lost a great deal of money, and 
 that he is so poor he cannot pay for his place, and so they 
 are going to take it from him. Jessie heard Mr. Butler 
 talking to him about it this morning, and she says Mr. 
 Butler" 
 
 " Stop, stop, Harriet, if Jessie only overheard a conver 
 sation between her father and Mr. Butler she was very 
 wrong to repeat it to you, and the wrong must not go 
 any further you must not tell it even to me." 
 
 " Oh, but, Aunt Kitty, Mr. Graham told Jessie he did 
 not mind her telling anybody except her grandmother. 
 He does not want old Mrs. Graham to know it yet ; I do 
 not know why. It was Mr. Graham's talking about his 
 mother that made Mr. Butler tell him, Jessie says, that, if 
 he thought he would be able to pay him next year, he 
 would wait for his money till then ; but Mr. Graham said 
 something about a bank breaking down I did not quite 
 understand that, Aunt Kitty, but at any rate, all his mo- 
 ney was in it, and he told Mr. Butler that he never expect 
 ed to be able to pay him, and that he must take the house 
 back. Mr. Butler said that he would try to get some one 
 to buy it who would not want it till next year, so that Mr. 
 Graham need not go till then ; but then, Aunt Kitty; they 
 will have to go." 
 
 " I am very sorry- for it, Harriet, very sorry indeed." 
 
 " I knew you would be, Aunt Kitty, and I told Jessie so, 
 and that you would try to think of something to help her 
 father, and maybe they would not have to go at all." 
 
 Harriet was silent and looked earnestly in my face for a 
 minute, then finding I did not answer her, she said, softly, 
 " Will you not, Aunt Kitty, will you not help Mr. Gra 
 ham?"' 
 
 " Most gladly, Harriet, if I can, but I do not yet see 
 how. You know I am not very rich just now myself." 
 
 Harriet looked quite discouraged and thoughtful for a 
 while, then said, " Could not Uncle Mackay help him ?" 
 
 " You know that your uncle is about to travel on account 
 of your aunt's health, and you may have heard him com 
 plain of being kept here much longer than he wished, in 
 consequence of the difficulty of getting the money which is 
 necessary for himself. Besides, Harriet," said I, interrupt 
 ing her as she was about to speak, " I feel sure, from what
 
 76 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 I know of Mr. Graham, that he would not take the money 
 he needs, as a gift from anybody, while he is well and 
 strong, and only to lend it to him would be doing him little 
 service, since it would be as difficult to pay it back as to 
 pay for his house." 
 
 Harriet looked quite desponding, and said, " Poor Jessie, 
 she will have to go, then." 
 
 . " There is but one way, Harriet, which I now think of 
 to prevent it. I have heard Mr. Graham say that he had 
 more leisure than he liked, and that he could very well at 
 tend to another garden besides his own and your Uncle 
 Mackay's. Now, if we could get more work and more 
 wages for him, he could, perhaps, hire a house for the 
 present, and might in time again lay up money enough to 
 buy." 
 
 " That's it, Aunt Kitty-^that's it that is the very be?t 
 plan," said Harriet, eagerly ; "do let me run over and teH 
 Jessie about it." 
 
 " Wait, Harriet, till we see some prospect of succeeding 
 in it, before we say any thing to Jessie. After breakfast 
 we will go over to your uncle's, and see if we can learn 
 any thing from him likely to profit Mr. Graham." . 
 
 Before I had left the breakfast table, Harriet called out, 
 "Aunt Kitty, here are Uncle Mackay and Mr. Graham 
 coming this way." When they reached my gate, how. 
 ever, Mr. Graham passed on towards his own house, and 
 my brother came in alone. He had just heard from Mr. 
 Graham, that he would probably be obliged to leave us 
 soon, and seemed much grieved about it. Mr. Graham 
 had told him that his father had leased his house and gar. 
 den from Mr. Butler for twenty-one years that is, had 
 engaged for that time to pay a certain sum of money every 
 year for them. When the twenty-one years were out, 
 Mr. Graham had offered to buy them, on condition that he 
 should not be asked to pay the money for ten years. Du 
 ring this time, he had every year put by something towards 
 paying this debt in a savings bank, and now, when the ten 
 years wanted but a very few months of being ended, and 
 he thought himself quite ready to pay for his house, he 
 discovered that the bank had failed, or, as Harriet said, 
 broken that is, that it had nothing with which to pay him 
 and others whom it owed.
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 77 
 
 My brother thought my- plan for helping Mr. Graham 
 would be a very good one, if we could only find the work 
 and the wages ; but this he feared would not be easy, as 
 there were few persons in the neighborhood who employed 
 a gardener. 
 
 " There is my friend Dickinson," he said at length, 
 "who told me, when I saw him last, that he intended to 
 dismiss his gardener, because he could not keep his chil 
 dren out of the garden, where they were forever annoying 
 him by trampling on his flower-beds and breaking his flow 
 ers. This would be an excellent place, for he gives his 
 gardener a very pretty hous% and some ground for himself, 
 besides a high salary, but "** * 
 
 " Oh !" said I, interrupting him, " do not put in a lut, 
 for that is the very place we want." 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, eagerly, " that is the 
 very place." 
 
 " I fear," said my brother, smiling at her earnestness, 
 " that it is a place which even Aunt Kitty with all her in 
 fluence cannot get, for Mr. Dickinson declared he was de 
 termined never again to employ a man who had children, 
 and you know his determination is not easily changed." 
 
 Still, discouraging as the case seemed, I resolved to try, 
 and ordering the carriage, I asked Harriet if she would 
 like to go with me. " No, thank you, Aunt Kitty. I would 
 like the drive, but Mr. Dickinson looks so cross I am al 
 ways afraid he is going to scold me." 
 
 " Did you not tell me, when we were last there, that 
 you would never be afraid of him again, after seeing him 
 play so good-humoredly with William -Temple ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, Aunt Kitty ; and now I remember that, I think 
 I will go, if you will ask Mrs. Temple, when we get there, 
 to let me play with William in the nursery." 
 
 Harriet was soon ready, and as the day was bright and 
 the road good, we had a very pleasant drive of a mile and 
 a half to Mr. Dickinson's. Before I tell you of our visit, 
 however, you would perhaps like to hear something of Mr. 
 Dickinson himself, of Mrs. Temple, and of little William. 
 
 7*
 
 78 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. . 
 
 % 
 
 VISIT TO FLOWERHILL. 
 
 MR. DICKINSON was "pi elderly gentleman, who had had 
 his own way pretty much all his life. In the first place, 
 when he was a child, having had no brothers or sisters, 
 and being of course *a great pet^th his father his mother 
 died when he was too young tdVemember her he was sel 
 dom contradicted or opposecPin- any thing. When he was 
 about fifteen his father-brought home another mother for 
 him, but as he was thefai school, he was little under her 
 control. In about j^tar she too died, leaving a little girl 
 who was his half-sister. As he loved this sister very much, 
 and was not a selfish boy, he would, I doubt not, sometimes 
 have given up his will to her, but she was taken away by 
 an aunt, who took care of her, and with whom she always 
 lived till she married. This sister is Mrs. Temple, and a 
 very pleasant woman she is, and dearly does she love her 
 brother William, as she showed by naming her first son 
 after him. When Mr. Dickinson's father died, he was still 
 a very young man. As he was rich, had nothing to keep 
 him at home, and was desirous of seeing other countries, 
 .he went to England, and was for several years travelling 
 in Great Britain and on the continent of Europe. He could 
 tell very pleasant stories of what he had seen and heard 
 abroad, but he always ended by saying he had never seen 
 any place which he liked half so well as Flowerhill. This 
 was the name he had given to his home. 
 
 And well might he like it, for it was indeed n beautiful 
 place. The house was built on the side of a hill. It had 
 no up-stairs, being only one story high, yet it was so large 
 that a dozen children might have played in one part of it 
 without disturbing Mr. Dickinson in the other. Then it was 
 shaded by such beautiful large old elm-trees. And the 
 garden there was not such another garden in the country, 
 for Mr. Dickinson had employed a very skilful English gar 
 dener, who had laid it out with great taste, and he was con 
 stantly buying for it choice and beautiful flowers. People
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 79 
 
 __ 
 
 must have something to pet. Now Mr. Dickinson being a sin 
 gle man, with no children to pet, had learned to make pets of 
 his flowers. You will probably think, from all I have said, 
 that Mr. Dickinson, with no one ever to oppose him, and 
 plenty of money to do what he liked with, must have been 
 a very happy man. When you are a little older you will 
 learn that those are not the happiest people who always 
 have their own way. There were very few people who 
 seemed more fretful and discontented than this Mr. Dick- 
 inson. Children, like Harriet, called him cross, and ran 
 away from him, while older people often thought him proud 
 and ill-tempered, and were rather distant with him. Ye^ 
 those who knew him well, liked him much, for he was a 
 very upright and honest and kind-hearted man. You will 
 be a little surprised perhaps at my calling him kind- 
 hearted, but could you have heard from some poor old peo 
 ple near him, how often he sent them food and fuel in the 
 winter season when they could not go out to work, and must 
 have been both cold and hungry but for him, you would 
 not think it strange. To be sure, they said, he would scold 
 a little when he came to see them, if it was only because 
 they did not make better fires or boil their soup more ; but 
 they did not mind this, for they had found out that the 
 more he scolded, the more he gave. Then, though Mr. 
 Dickinson was never quite satisfied with children, who 
 either talked so loud that they made his head ache, or so 
 low that he could not hear them, and if they walked out 
 with him were certain to tread either on his feet or his 
 flowers, he was always very careful that they should not 
 get hurt when near him, and would often spend his money 
 and give himself some trouble to gratify their wishes, if they 
 were not unreasonable. Mrs. Temple and her two chil 
 dren, William, who was about six years old, and Flora, 
 who was nearly four years younger, had been spending the 
 summer with Mr. Dickinson ; and William, who was a 
 fine, spirited boy, was a great deal with his uncle, and took 
 more liberties with him than I believe anybody boy or 
 man had ever done before. 
 
 In driving to Mr. Dickinson's from my house, the road 
 wound around his garden, and passed, on the other side, 
 \he house which had been built for his gardener. This 
 was a very pretty cottage, with another garden at the back
 
 80 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 of it, which, though much smaller than Mr. Dickinson's, 
 and very simply laid out, looked scarcely less pleasing, 
 with its raspberry and strawberry vines its currant and 
 gooseberry bushes its roses and pinks, and its little arbor 
 of grapes, over the entrance to which hung the fragrant 
 honeysuckle and bright red woodbine. The house was 
 shut up, but looked as if it might have quite room enough 
 for Mr. Graham's family. Harriet was sure it was just 
 the thing, and even managed, in the minute we were pass 
 ing, to get a peep into the poultry-yard, and to ascertain 
 that there was good accommodation for all Jessie's ducks 
 and chickens. 
 
 We found Mr. Dickinson at home. He was reading to 
 his sister, Mrs. Temple, as she sat at work in a room with 
 sashed doors opening into the garden. One of these doors 
 was open, and William Temple soon appeared at it, calling 
 out, " Uncle, do come here and tell me what this beautiful 
 flower is named ?" 
 
 " Not now, sir, not now," said Mr. Dickinson ; and then, 
 before William could speak, added, " Pray, sir, do you not 
 see the ladies, that you take no notice of them ?" 
 
 William came in, and having spoken to me and to Har 
 riet, who was a great favorite with him, he waited patiently 
 till there was a pause in the conversation, when he edged 
 up to his uncle, and taking his hand said, "Come, now 
 uncle, do come it will not take you two minutes, and I 
 must know the name of that flower, it is the handsomest 
 thing I ever saw in my life." 
 
 " You are very persevering, sir," said Mr. Dickinson, 
 but at the same time rose and suffered the little boy to lead 
 him ofF. 
 
 Mrs. Temple asked if I would not follow them and see 
 this wonderful flower; to which I readily agreed, as I 
 thought while in the garden I might find a very good op 
 portunity to speak to Mr. Dickinson about his gardener. 
 We soon came up with William and his uncle. They 
 were standing by a large tub, in which was the flower 
 William had so much admired. It was indeed a splendid 
 plant. When near enough, I heard Mr. Dickinson pro 
 nouncing its name very slowly, while William carefully 
 repeated it after him. It was so long that I fear poor Wil 
 liam with all his trouble did not remember it long j yet, as
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 81 
 
 you may like to know it I will tell it to you. It was a 
 Cactus Grandiflora. The flower was not yet fully open, 
 and on my saying I had never seen one before, Mr. Dick 
 inson begged that I would drive over the next day and look 
 at it in greater perfection, which I promised to do, if the 
 weather remained pleasant. As we returned to the house 
 William drew Harriet off into another walk. Mr. Dickin 
 son looked after them for a moment, and then said, turning 
 to me, " William is the only child I ever saw who at six 
 years old might be trusted in a garden without fear. He 
 will not pluck a leaf without permission." 
 
 " Well taught children never do," said I. 
 
 " Then, ma'am," he replied, " there are very few well 
 taught children. I have just had to part with a most ad 
 mirable gardener, because his children were in this respect 
 so ill taught, that they did my flowers more harm than he, 
 with all his skill, could do them good." 
 
 " Have you supplied his place yet ?" I inquired. 
 
 " No, ma'am, I have not. I am determined to engage 
 no one who has children, and I have not yet heard of one 
 who has none." 
 
 " Would it not be as well if you could find one whose 
 children were in this respect as well taught as William 
 Temple ?" 
 
 " That, ma'am, I think would be even more difficult." 
 
 "It is perhaps not common, but I know a man who 
 would, I think, suit you in all respects." 
 
 " Not if he have children, ma'am," said Mr. Dickinson, 
 with a very determined air. 
 
 " You have seen his children, and I think must ac 
 knowledge them to be well behaved, for it is of Mr. Gra 
 ham, my brother's gardener, that I speak." 
 
 " I never saw his children in a garden, ma'am," said 
 Mr. Dickinson. 
 
 " Suppose I give you an opportunity of doing so," said 
 I, " by bringing his eldest daughter over with me to-morrow. 
 She is, I assure you, a great favorite both with Harriet and 
 with me." 
 
 Before Mr. Dickinson could reply to me, Mrs. Temple 
 asked if my brother was going to give up his gardener, that 
 I was seeking other employment for him. I replied that 
 my brother would part with him very unwillingly, but that
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 Mr. Graham had met with great losses, and unless he 
 could obtain a more profitable situation, would have to 
 move away to some distant part of the country where liv 
 ing was cheaper, and where his large family might there 
 fore be more easily supported. I saw that Mr. Dickinson 
 was listening to me, though he said nothing; so, still 
 speaking to Mrs. Temple, I explained the cause of Mr. 
 Graham's difficulties, and then added, " It is for the aged 
 mother of Mr. Graham that I feel this change most. Your 
 brother and I were children when she came to this country 
 with her husband, who soon died, leaving her with this son 
 to support, and nothing but her own labor with which to do 
 it. Your father and some other friends offered her the 
 means of going back to her own family in Scotland. She 
 thanked them, but said, there was no home so dear to her 
 as that where she had lived with her husband, and that she 
 could not leave him, even in his grave, alone with stran 
 gers. And now " 
 
 " I will tell you what I will do, ma'am," said Mr. Dick 
 inson, " I will lend Mr. Graham ihe money to pay for his 
 house." 
 
 " Ah ! but, Mr. Dickinson, how is he to make the money 
 to pay you again ?" 
 
 " I will give it to him, ma'am, I will give it to him." 
 
 " That will not do," said I, " for Mr. Graham is a proud 
 man, and as determined in his way as Mr. Dickinson is in 
 his. He will not receive alms while he can earn a liv- 
 ing." 
 
 Mr. Dickinson was silent a little while, then said, " I do 
 not see what I can do, for I cannot have children here, 
 that is certain." 
 
 " May I bring little Jessie with me to-morrow, and show 
 you that she, like William Temple, can walk through a 
 garden without plucking a leaf?" 
 
 " If she be cautioned beforehand," said Mr. Dickinson. 
 
 " No," said I, " I will give her no cautions." 
 
 The children were now again beside us, and William, 
 who had heard the last part of our conversation, called 
 out, " Oh yes, Uncle, let Jessie come do she is the 
 greatest gardener in the country, and taught me a great 
 deal, now I will see if she ever heard of Cac-tus Grand-i- 
 flo-ra," pronouncing every syllable with great emphasis.
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 83 
 
 " For once," said Mrs. Temple, smiling, " I will second 
 William's request, let the little girl come." 
 
 " Oh, certainly, certainly, ladies, let her come. I have 
 no objection to her coming but, remember, I make no 
 promise to employ her father as my gardener." 
 
 " And, uncle, Mary Mackay too, I love Mary Mackay 
 pray, ask Aunt Kitty to bring her." 
 
 William's influence seemed irresistible, and I left Mr. 
 Dickinson's with permission to bring both Mary and Jessie 
 with me the next day. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HOPES AND FEARS. 
 
 WE dined at Mr. Dickinson's, and as the weather was 
 warm, waited till near sunset before we returned home. 
 As we got into the carriage, Mr. Dickinson said, " I shall 
 expect you to-morrow, if the weather be fine." 
 
 Harriet turned her head anxiously towards the west to 
 see what weather the setting sun would promise us. It 
 was just then under a cloud, but we had not gone a quarter 
 of a mile before it shone out very brightly. Harriet clap 
 ped her hands and cried out, " Oh, Aunt Kitty, is it not 
 delightful ?" 
 
 " It is very beautiful, my dear, certainly," said f, look- 
 ing at the cloud which glittered like the brightest gold in 
 the sunlight. 
 
 " But, Aunt Kitty, I mean, is it not delightful to think 
 that we shall have such a fine day to-morrow to go to 
 Flowerhill ?" 
 
 " Why, Harriet, are you not a little whimsical, to be so 
 highly delighted with the prospect of doing to-morrow what, 
 when I first proposed it to you to-day, you seemed rather 
 disinclined to do ?" 
 
 " That was because I thought Mr. Dickinson was cross, 
 but William says he is not cross at all ; and then, you 
 know, Aunt Kitty, Jessie is to go with us to-morrow, and I 
 am sure, almost, that Mr. Graham will get the place."
 
 84 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 " I wish I felt sure, Harriet, or even almost sure of it ; 
 but Mr. Dickinson seems very decided not to have any 
 children about his garden." 
 
 " But, Aunt Kitty, when he sees how careful Jessie is, 
 do you not think he may ?" 
 
 " We will hope for the best, Harriet. But even should 
 Mr. Graham not gain the place, Harriet Armand may 
 gain a lesson from this business, and a very useful lesson 
 too. Do you see what this lesson is, or shall I tell you ?" 
 
 Harriet thought a minute, and then said, " You must tell 
 me, Aunt Kitty, unless it is that I must be very careful in 
 a garden, and especially in Mr. Dickinson's garden." This 
 last was said with a laugh. 
 
 " No, Harriet, it is a far graver and more important les 
 son than this. It is, that you must be careful everywhere 
 to do no wrong not the least for that which seems to you 
 a very little wrong may be followed by very great evil, 
 and by evil to others as well as to yourself. Those chil 
 dren who have offended Mr. Dickinson, I dare say, thought 
 it no great harm that they now and then picked a flower, 
 or, in their play, ran over and trampled down the beds in 
 his garden ; yet you see how much evil has followed, 
 their own parents have lost their pleasant home, and now 
 the remembrance of their bad conduct may prevent a good 
 man's getting a situation which would save his family from 
 great distress. God has taught us, my child, that wrong 
 doing always brings suffering, but what, or how great that 
 suffering may be, we know not. Remember this, Harriet ; 
 and remember, too, that when once the wrong is done, how 
 ever bitterly we may mourn over it, we cannot undo it, and 
 the suffering will follow we cannot escape it." 
 
 " But, Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, in a low and hesitating 
 tone, " if we are sorry for what we do wrong, if we mourn 
 over it, as you say^ will not God forgive us ?" 
 
 " Yes, Harriet, He will forgive us, and so take away 
 from us the worst of all evifcs His displeasure. He will 
 pity us, and his ' loving-kindness' will comfort us under 
 our suffering ; but the suffering must come, and either by 
 enduring it ourselves or by seeing others endure it, we 
 shall be taught how much better it would have been if we 
 had not done the wrong how wise was that commandment 
 of God which forbade us to do it."
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 85 
 
 The sun had set before we were at home. Harriet's 
 first inquiry was 1 , if Jessie had been yet to feed the cow. 
 She had been, the servant said, and had gone back home 
 only a few minutes before we arrived. I told Harriet that 
 after we had taken tea we would walk over to Mr. Graham's 
 together, and invite Jessie to go with us in the morning. 
 
 " And may I tell her, Aunt Kitty, all about your trying 
 to get the place for her father, and beg her to be very care 
 ful not to touch the flowers ?" 
 
 " No, Harriet, Jessie would, like you, probably feel 
 almost sure of the place for her father, and the disappoint 
 ment would be very hard to bear if he did not get it. Be 
 sides, I promised Mr. Dickinson to give her no caution." 
 
 " But, Aunt Kitty, I may just tell her how cross Mr. 
 Dickinson is, so that she may feel very much afraid to 
 touch any thing." 
 
 "Harriet !" said I, " have you forgotten already William 
 Temple's assurances that his uncle is not cross at all ?" 
 
 " No, Aunt Kitty, I have not forgotten I did not mean 
 how cross, but how particular he is." 
 
 " I think you had better say nothing to spoil Jessie's en 
 joyment of a pleasant day. You would do no good by 
 making her afraid to move. Mr. Dickinson would see 
 quickly enough that she was not acting naturally, and 
 would place no confidence in the continuance of such ex 
 treme cautiousness." Harriet still looked anxious, and I 
 added, " I can trust Jessie without any cautions." 
 
 The evening was very still so still, that, as we walked 
 to Mr. Graham's, we could hear the grasshoppers jumping 
 from our path, and the lowing of a cow in a field near us 
 sounded so loud, that Harriet started as if it had been some 
 strange noise. As we passed the garden we heard old 
 Mrs. Graham's voice, and though the fence was too high 
 for me to see them, I soon found that she and Jessie were 
 walking just inside of it, and therefore near enough for us 
 to hear what they said. Had they been talking of any 
 thing which they might not have wished a stranger to hear, 
 I would have spoken to them, but as this was not the case, 
 and as I was interested in their conversation, I motioned 
 to Harriet to keep quiet and listen to it. 
 
 " Ah, yes, Jessie, it is a pretty place a very pretty 
 place," said Mrs. Graham. 
 
 8
 
 86 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 "But, grandmother," said Jessie, "there are a great 
 many other places just as pretty." 
 
 " Maybe so, Jessie, maybe so, but there are none, child, 
 we love so well." 
 
 " But when we get used to them, grandmother, we should 
 get to love them, should we not ?" 
 
 Mrs. Graham was silent for a minute or two, till Jessie 
 said, " Say, grandmother, should we not ?" 
 
 " I was thinking, my dear, and I do not think I could. 
 You would, Jessie, for the hearts of young people like you 
 are full of hope. You are always thinking of the pleasure 
 you will have to-morrow, or the next week, or the next 
 month, and every change, you think, will bring some en 
 joyment. But our hearts, Jessie, the hearts of the old, are 
 full of what we remember of the pleasures we have had 
 already, and which can never come back to us, and we 
 love the old places best where we can look around and say 
 to ourselves ' There I had a pleasant walk with such a 
 dear friend ; and, There I sat when I heard such a piece of 
 good news ; and so on.' Do you understand me, Jessie ?" 
 
 "Yes, grandmother." After awhile, Jessie said in a 
 very low voice, so that I could just hear her, " Grandmother, 
 did not grandfather live here ?" 
 
 " Yes, my child, and I was just going to tell you, Jessie, 
 that there is one move I would be willing to make ; I would 
 be willing to live near, quite near, the church, for it is get 
 ting to be hard work for me to get in and out of a wagon, 
 and I cannot walk so far now, and though I am sure you 
 take good care of grandfather's grave, I shall still want to 
 see it sometimes myself." 
 
 Flowerhill was quite near the country church in whose 
 graveyard Mr. Graham had been buried, and Harriet could 
 not resist whispering to me, " Oh, Aunt Kitty, it will just 
 do." 
 
 Mrs. Graham said nothing more, and when we entered 
 the house at the front door, she and Jessie were just coming 
 up the steps which led from the garden. Jessie was de 
 lighted with the promise for to-morrow, and so often repeated 
 how good it was in Mr. Dickinson to let William Temple 
 ask her, that I saw Harriet was quite afraid that Mr. Dick 
 inson would not appear awful enough in Jessie's eyes, and 
 that she longed to add, " but he is very particular." It
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 87 
 
 was arranged that we were to go quite early in the morn 
 ing, that is, by nine o'clock, when it would be still cool and 
 pleasant. This hour did not make it necessary for us to 
 rise earlier than we usually did, as we always breakfasted 
 at seven o'clock in summer. Yet, so much was Harriet 
 excited, that three times in the night she called out from 
 her little room, to ask if I thought it near daylight, and she 
 started up in the morning with the first ray of sunlight. 
 As soon as she was dressed, I sent her for Mary Mackay. 
 Before breakfast was on table all my company was collected, 
 and a merrier company was certainly never seen, except 
 Harriet, who, though pleased, was anxious. Mary jumped, 
 and danced, and laughed, and sung, till Harriet exclaimed, 
 " Mary, if you do so at Mr. Dickinson's he will think you 
 crazy. I am sure he would not trust anybody who danced 
 about as you are doing, in his garden for one moment." 
 
 " I do not care to go in his garden," said Mary, " I 
 would rather a great deal play under the trees with Wil 
 liam." 
 
 " But you must go in the garden, Mary, or you will not 
 see the flower, and you know you were asked to see the 
 flower." 
 
 " Don't be afraid, Harriet ; I'll go in the garden, and when 
 I do, I'll walk so," putting her hands down close to her 
 side as she spoke, and mincing her steps as if she was 
 treading on something she was afraid of crushing. I had 
 a little suspicion that this lesson was intended by Harriet 
 more for Jessie than for Mary. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE GARDEN THE LITTLE AND THE GRAND FLORA. 
 
 As HARRIET had been taught always to speak kindly to 
 servants, she was quite a favorite with them, and her pe 
 tition to the coachman that he would drive fast, made him 
 put the horses into such rapid motion that the mile and a
 
 88 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 half was soon passed, and we were landed at Flowerhill 
 before Mary had half arranged her plans of amusement for 
 the day. Notwithstanding our speed, however, William 
 called out, as we drove up, " What made you wait so long? 
 I have been watching for you this great while." 
 
 Mr. Dickinson spoke to the children very pleasantly, and 
 asked very kindly after Jessie's grandmother. As he 
 caught my eye, however, on turning away from her, he 
 shook his head with a look which seemed to say, " Remem 
 ber, I promise nothing." 
 
 William was so impatient to show Jessie the flower and 
 to exhibit his own accomplishments as a florist, that he 
 carried the children off at once to the garden. Mr. Dick 
 inson looked rather anxiously after them as they went 
 tripping gayly along the walks, and very soon proposed 
 that we should follow them. I acknowledge that, confident 
 as I had expressed myself to be, and as I really was, of 
 Jessie's good behavior, my great anxiety that she should be 
 particularly cautious, made me a little nervous, a little 
 fearful that she might at least let the skirt of her dress 
 brush off a leaf, and thus give Mr. Dickinson an excuse 
 for adhering to his determination. I was, therefore, quite 
 ready to join the children, who would, I thought, be more 
 quiet when we were near. The first sight of them, how 
 ever, set my fears at rest, and I glanced at Mr. Dickinson 
 with something of triumph. There they stood ranged 
 around the tub in which was the strange and beautiful 
 flower they were admiring, yet not a finger was raised 
 even to point at it ; on the contrary, they were holding 
 each other's hands as if they feared their own forgetful- 
 ness. They moved away as we came up, though not far, 
 and William Temple continued to repeat to Jessie all which 
 he had learned from his uncle of the nature and habits of 
 the plant. After I had observed all the beauties of this pride 
 of the garden, and exhibited as much admiration for them 
 .as even Mr. Dickinson could desire, he invited me to walk 
 with him to a distant part of the garden, where he had 
 some other plants scarce less beautiful or less rare than 
 this. Little Flora Temple, who, as I have before told you, 
 was only about two years old, had held her mother's finger 
 and run along by her side from the house, prattling all the 
 way of the " pitty fower" which she was going to see.
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 89 
 
 She now refused to go any farther, saying, " Fola tired 
 stay, Willy." 
 
 Mrs. Temple looked at Mr. Dickinson doubtfully, but as 
 if to show the confidence which the good conduct of the 
 children had given him, he made no objection, saying, in 
 deed, " William will take good care of her," so she was 
 left. 
 
 With a lightened heart, beginning to feel as Harriet did, 
 almost sure that Mr. Graham would have the place, I went. 
 What happened after we had left the children, I must tell 
 you as I learned it from themselves. It seems, that find 
 ing her brother too much engaged with Jessie and his new 
 office of teacher to attend much to her, Flora became weary 
 and teased him to take her into the house. " Poor thing," 
 said William, " she is tired standing up. If brother Willy 
 finds a .pretty place for her, will she sit down quite still till 
 he runs to the house for Nursey to come and take her 
 up?" 
 
 The child assented. Now, unfortunately, just by the 
 Cactus stood a flower-stand, not intended for a parlor, but 
 large and high, making a pretty ornament in a garden 
 when covered with small plants, which were better sunned 
 in this way than if placed on the earth. This flower-stand 
 was in the shape of a half moon ; the shelves looked like 
 steps, and were quite strong enough to bear Flora's weight, 
 or indeed William's. They were dry and clean, and 
 seemed to him to offer a very nice and safe seat for Flora, 
 especially as she would be within sight of the house all the 
 time. William was only six years old, and perhaps does 
 not deserve to be blamed very much for forgetting, in this 
 arrangement, that as his back would be towards Flora in 
 going to the house, and as the other children were standing 
 behind the flower-stand, neither he nor they would be able 
 to see her or provide for her safety. They had paid little 
 attention to her, and supposed, when they missed her, that 
 William had taken her to the house with him, while he had 
 in reality placed her on the third shelf, or step, as he called 
 it, of the flower-stand. Giving her a few common flowers 
 to amuse her, he ran on without thought of harm. Jessie 
 was still occupied With the strange stalk and leaves of this 
 wonderful plant, which she was every minute wishing her 
 father could see Harriet, equally intent on guarding Mr. 
 
 8*
 
 90 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 Dickinson's treasures from the touch even of Jessie's dress, 
 and Mary in looking for a weed, of which William Tern- 
 pie had declared there was not one in his uncle's garden, 
 when they were all startled by a scream. It was William's 
 voice then followed a few eager words, " Jessie, look up 
 Jessie Harriet catch her !" 
 
 Jessie looked- up, and there stood Flora Temple on the 
 topmost height of the narrow flower-stand. Attracted pro 
 bably by the voices, she had climbed up, intending, no doubt, to 
 get down to them gn the other side. William, who first saw 
 her, was too far away to help her, and when Jessie looked at 
 her, she had already become frightened and was leaning 
 forwards with her arms outstretched. Harriet ran around 
 the stand to go up to her Jessie saw it was too late for 
 this in one instant she was standing on the tub the Cactus 
 tub the next, Flora was in her arms, the child was safe, 
 and the flower, the splendid flower, the pride of Mr. Dick 
 inson's garden, and admiration of his guests, lay on the 
 ground. Falling from such a height, Flora's weight had 
 been too much for Jessie. She had bent under it, and 
 pressing against the stake, supporting the flower, it had 
 broken, and before Jessie could raise herself, the flower 
 was at her feet. For a time it was unseen, for all were 
 occupied with Flora, who screamed as if she had really 
 met the fall she had so narrowly escaped. Her nurse took 
 her from Jessie, and moved towards the house with her, 
 followed by all the children, without any one of them hav 
 ing even glanced at the Cactus. After going a short dis 
 tance, however, the girls, finding they could do nothing to 
 pacify her, returned to look for Mary's gloves and hand 
 kerchief, which she had laid down and quite forgotten in 
 her fright about Flora. As they came near the flower, 
 Harriet was the first to perceive the mischief done, and to 
 exclaim, " Oh, Jessie, see what you have done ! What will 
 Mr. Dickinson say ?" 
 
 Jessie was a timid child, and Mr. Dickinson seemed to 
 her the most awful person in the world. Distressed and 
 frightened, she stood for a minute with her hands clasped, 
 looking down at the prostrate flower without speaking a 
 word, then suddenly looking up, said, "Harriet, I am very 
 sorry, but I could not help it, and I must just go to Mr. 
 Dickinson and tell him I did it."
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM 91 
 
 "Ah, Jessie ! you do not know all," said Harriet, " or 
 it would not seem so easy to tell him that." 
 
 " It does not seem easy, Harriet," Jessie began but 
 Mary interrupted her, exclaiming warmly, " Why, Har 
 riet ! I do believe you think Jessie ought to have let Flora 
 fall rather than have broken that one single flower." 
 
 " No, Mary, I do not think so, but I wish anybody else 
 had done it rather than Jessie." 
 
 " Why, Harriet ?" said Jessie, " why would you rather 
 anybody else had done it ?" 
 
 " Because, Jessie, I would rather Mr. Dickinson should 
 be angry to-day with anybody than with you." 
 
 " But why ?" persisted Jessie. 
 
 Harriet hesitated then said, " I may as well tell you, 
 Jessie ; for the only reason Aunt Kitty did not wish me to, 
 was that you would be too sure, and there's no danger of 
 that now." 
 
 " Too sure of what ?" 
 
 " Why, that he would have your father for his gar 
 dener," and then Harriet told of all her hopes and fears, 
 and of my efforts, and of the beautiful house and garden, 
 and six hundred dollars a-year which Mr. Dickinson gave 
 his gardener, " And then you know, Jessie, you would 
 not be too far to come every day to school to Miss Bennett ; 
 and see, Jessie, there's the church," pointing to the steeple, 
 " so near, and you know your grandmother wants to live 
 near the church, and this was what made me want you to 
 come so very much that Mr. Dickinson might see how 
 careful you were, and then I was almost sure he would let 
 your father have the place ; but now " and she looked 
 down sorrowfully at the prostrate flower. 
 
 Jessie, who had listened with wondering and eager ears, 
 looked down too and said nothing. 
 
 After a short pause, Mary Mackay exclaimed, " They 
 are coming, I hear Mr. Dickinson but do not look so 
 pale and so frightened, Jessie. I will tell you what I will 
 do I am not afraid of Mr. Dickinson he cannot do any 
 thing to hurt me. Now, Jessie, do not begin to say no I 
 am not going to tell a story I am just going to let him 
 think it was I who broke the flower." 
 
 " No, no, Mary," said Jessie but before she had finish 
 ed speaking, Mary had picked up the broken branch, and
 
 92 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 stood in the path before the astonished Mr. Dickinson and 
 myself. Mrs. Temple had excused herself and returned 
 to the house by another way some time before. There 
 stood Mary with the branch in her hand the branch, with 
 its flower broken and soiled. 
 
 " Mr. Dickinson," her voice faltered, and she evidently 
 began to grow frightened, but she continued, " I am very 
 sorry, sir, your flower has got broke." 
 
 Mr. Dickinson turned first red and then pale. He 
 said not a word to Mary, but turned to me with a look 
 which I well understood it said as plainly as words could 
 have done, "You see how right I was about children." 
 This passed in an instant, for you know looks do not take 
 long, and before I could say a word to him before I could 
 even ask Mary how it happened, Jessie stood beside her. 
 She was very pale. Laying her hand on the branch which 
 Mary held, she said very distinctly, though her voice was 
 low, " She did not break it, sir it was I." 
 
 ' We were all silent for a moment, and then Mr. Dickin 
 son spoke, " It was you ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then, my dear," he continued, speaking very slowly, 
 " I am very much obliged to you, for you have saved me 
 probably from a great many such trials. Had you been 
 as careful and well-behaved as this lady thought you, I 
 should have been hardly able to refuse her request that I 
 would take your father as my gardener, at least on trial 
 for one year, and at the end of that time, I should, it seems, 
 have had little of a garden to keep." 
 
 Mr. Dickinson walked on without another word or even 
 look at the little culprits. And I walked on too. You will 
 think me very cruel, and so I thought myself but a minute 
 after, as I heard Jessie's low, half-smothered sobs, and the 
 efforts of Harriet and Mary to console her ; but I was really 
 vexed with Jessie, for you must remember I did not know 
 how she had been so unfortunate as to break the plant, 
 the children had been too much frightened even to think 
 of telling us that. Besides, I was on my way to see a new 
 dairy of Mr. Dickinson's, and as I had asked to see it, he 
 would have thought my leaving him unpardonably impo 
 lite. I fear, as it was, I must have seemed very inatten 
 tive, for I often forgot to answer him while listening to
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 93 
 
 poor Jessie's sobs, or looking back to the garden walk 
 where she still stood with her head resting on Harriet's 
 shoulder, while Mary held one of her hands and talked 
 with even more than her usual earnestness. What they 
 said I must repeat to you as I heard it from themselves, 
 since it is necessary you should know it in order to under 
 stand what afterwards happened. 
 
 " I would not cry, Jessie," said Mary, " I would be glad 
 my father was not to live with such a cross, bad man." 
 
 " Oh, Mary ! you do not know how badly father feels 
 about going away. He thinks it will kill grandmother 
 only to hear about it and he might have come here if it 
 had not been for me I am so sorry I came. What shall 
 I do, Harriet ? What shall I do ?" 
 
 " Let us all go and beg Mr. Dickinson," said Mary ; "I 
 am sure if we told him that Jessie had done it all to keep 
 little Flora Temple from hurting herself, he could not be 
 so cross." 
 
 " Well," said Harriet, " let us try we can do no harm 
 for he cannot be more angry than he is." 
 
 Poor Jessie was willing to try any thing, though she had 
 little hope. When she came near us, however, her heart 
 failed her and she drew back. Mary, who was always 
 ready to be speaker, proposed that Jessie and Harriet should 
 stay where they were, while she went forward and told 
 the story. This was agreed to, and we had scarcely en 
 tered the dairy when Mary followed us in. Breathing 
 very hard and quick, and looking quite flushed and agi 
 tated, she began, " Mr. Dickinson Aunt Kitty Aunt 
 Kitty, I am come to tell Mr. Dickinson how Jessie broke 
 the flower." 
 
 " There is no occasion, my dear," said Mr. Dickinson, 
 looking quite fretted and angry ; " I do not care to know 
 how she broke it, it is quite enough for me to know that it 
 is broken." 
 
 "But I want to tell you, sir," persisted Mary, "because 
 I am sure if you knew, you would not be angry with her." 
 
 " Angry with her ! I am not at an angry with her. I 
 do not doubt that she is a very good girl, and that I should 
 like her very much, but not in my garden, Miss Mary 
 not in my garden." 
 
 I saw that Mr. Dickinson felt worried, and that Jessie's
 
 94 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 cause was not gaining any thing from Mary's application, 
 so taking her hand, I said, " Do not tease Mr. Dickinson, 
 my dear, tell Jessie Mr. Dickinson says he is not angry 
 with her, and that Aunt Kitty loves her better than ever for 
 having told the truth so readily and firmly." 
 
 Mary looked very much dissatisfied, but as Mr. Dickin 
 son turned his back to her and talked to me as if she had 
 not been there, it was of no use to stay, and she soon left us. 
 
 " Jessie," said Mary, when she got back to her, " Mr. 
 Dickinson is a cross bad man, and I would not mind 
 him at all. He said he was not angry with you, but he 
 was just as angry as he could be, for he would not hear a 
 word I had to say about you but Aunt Kitty says you 
 must not cry, and that she loves you better than ever for 
 telling the truth." 
 
 Pleased as Jessie was with my praise, it could not com 
 fort her for her father's loss, or give her courage to meet 
 the dreaded Mr. Dickinson. 
 
 " Harriet," said she, " I do want to go home." 
 
 " Well, Jessie, you shall go I will ask Aunt Kitty to 
 send you there in the carriage, and then let it come back 
 for us." 
 
 " No, no, Harriet-^then they will all talk to me and 
 want me to stay. It's only a little way, and 1 walk every 
 week to the church why cannot I just slip through that 
 garden gate and get home without anybody's knowing it ? 
 I shall feel so much better when I have told father and 
 grandmother all about it." 
 
 " I dare say you will," said Harriet, " for when any 
 thing troubles me I want to tell Aunt Kitty directly, and 
 your grandmother is just the same to you. I would tell 
 her all, Jessie, for I am sure she would a great deal rather 
 go away anywhere than to have had you tell a story." 
 
 " That I am sure of too," said Jessie. 
 
 " Well," said Mary, coloring up, " I did not mean to tell 
 a story, but I do not see what harm it would have been to 
 let Mr. Dickinson think it was I that broke his plant, just 
 from seeing the brancn in my hand." 
 
 " Oh, Mary !" said Jessie, " I know you would not tell a 
 story, and it was very kind in you to want to take the 
 blame from me, but indeed, Mary, it would not have been 
 right, I'm sure it would not ; and badly as I do feel now, I
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 95 
 
 should have felt a great deal worse if I had not told Mr. 
 Dickinson all the truth, but good-by, girls," for they had 
 walked on while talking, and both Harriet and Mary had 
 gone with her beyond the gate, "I'll go. and tell father, 
 and beg him to let me tell grandmother all about it. He 
 said last night he wished she knew, only he could not bear 
 to tell her." 
 
 Jessie's tears had ceased as soon as she determined to go 
 home and tell her troubles there, and Harriet and Mary 
 parted from her with smiles, promising to beg me to go 
 back early, and to let them go directly to her house. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 TRUTH REWARDED. 
 
 I DO not know exactly how long it was before Mr. Dick 
 inson and I returned to the house, but the children were 
 there before us, and were already telling the story of Jes 
 sie's griefs to William, who was quite as much distressed 
 for her, and as angry with his uncle as even Mary could de 
 sire. As we entered the piazza where the children stood, 
 I asked for Jessie. 
 
 " She has gone home," said Harriet. 
 
 " Gone home !" I repeated in surprise. 
 
 " Yes," said William, looking very boldly at his uncle, 
 " and I think she was very right to go. I would not stay 
 where I was scolded just for breaking a flower." 
 
 " William !" said Mrs. Temple, in surprise at his vio 
 lence, for he was usually very gentle in his temper. Mr. 
 Dickinson folded his arms and looked at him without speak 
 ing, as if he wished to hear all he had to say before an 
 swering him'. 
 
 "Well, mother," said William, still trying to speak 
 boldly, though tears were in his eyes, and he could not 
 prevent the quivering of his lip, " I do think it was very 
 hard that Jessie should be scolded just for saving my little 
 sister from being hurt, or maybe killed. I am sure our
 
 96 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 little Flora is worth a great deal more than any grand 
 Flora." 
 
 " Saved little Flora !" repeated Mr. Dickinson, " what 
 does the child mean ?" looking at me, while I turned to 
 Mrs. Temple for an explanation. 
 
 " William is right," she answered, " in what he says, 
 though very wrong in his manner of saying it. I am sorry 
 Jessie has gone without my thanks, for, from the account 
 given both by William and the nurse, she has evinced ex 
 traordinary presence of mind for so young a child, and has 
 saved Flora from a very dangerous fall." 
 
 " Fall from what ?" 
 
 " From the large flower-stand which stood near the 
 Cactus, on a shelf of which William seated her while he 
 came to the house for her nurse. Flora climbed to the 
 top, and would have fallen on the flower, or worse, on the 
 stake which supported it, had not Jessie saved her." 
 
 " And in saving her broke the flower. I see it all now," 
 said Mr. Dickinson ; " but why did not the child tell me so ?" 
 
 " I tried to tell you, sir," said Mary, " in the dairy, but 
 you would not let me." 
 
 Mr. Dickinson colored, as if he was ashamed to remem 
 ber how angry he had been. 
 
 " And, Miss Mary Mackay, I think you had some inten 
 tion of telling me a story ; of making me believe, if Jessie 
 had let you, that you had broken the flower ; why was 
 this ?" 
 
 Mary hung her head and looked very much ashamed", 
 but answered, " I did not mean to tell a story, Mr. Dick 
 inson, I only meant to let you think it was I, because 
 it was better for you to be angry with me than to be angry 
 with Jessie." 
 
 " You only meant to let me think it was you ; and have 
 you been so ill taught, young lady, that you do not know 
 that in deceiving me by your looks and manner, you were 
 as guilty of falsehood as if you had spoken it ? But why 
 would it have been better for me to be angry with you than 
 with Jessie?" then, without waiting for an answer, Mr. 
 Dickinson turned to me and asked, " Did I not understand 
 you, ma'am, that Jessie was to know nothing of your plans, 
 that I might see how she would behave when unrestrained 
 by any cautions ?"
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 97 
 
 " I did tell you so," said I, " and was, I assure you, true 
 to my promise." 
 
 " Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, " after Jessie had broken 
 the flower, I was so sorry that I told her and Mary all 
 about it." 
 
 " All about what ?" asked Mr. Dickinson 
 
 " About Aunt Kitty's wanting you to have Mr. Graham 
 for your gardener, sir ; and that I thought you would have 
 had him, and have given him that pretty house and garden, 
 and six hundred dollars a year, if Jessie had not hurt any 
 thing." 
 
 " Then Jessie knew all this when she told me what she 
 had done ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, it was this that made Mary want her to let 
 you think she had done it ; but Jessie said she should never 
 feel happy if she did not tell you the truth, and that she 
 was sure her grandmother would rather go away than have 
 her tell a story." 
 
 " She is a noble little girl," said Mr. Dickinson, " and 
 her father shall be my gardener, and have the house and 
 garden, and six hundred dollars, and another hundred be 
 sides for Jessie's sake ; and if you will excuse me, ma'am, 
 I will order my horse and ride over to Mr. Graham's at 
 once. I may overtake the child." 
 
 How happy Harriet looked how Mary jumped and 
 danced how William, springing into his uncle's arms, 
 kissed him, declaring he loved him better than he had ever 
 done in his life, you may all imagine without my telling. 
 As soon as they were still enough for me to be heard, I begged 
 that Mrs. Temple would excuse me, and that Mr. Dickin 
 son would order my carriage and permit me to accompany 
 him, as I would not miss seeing Jessie's joyful surprise for 
 any thing. 
 
 The carriage was ordered, and in a very few minutes 
 we were on the road to Mr. Graham's. We looked eager 
 ly at every turn for Jessie's straw bonnet and plaided ging 
 ham dress, but nothing was seen of her. As we could 
 not overtake her, and did not wish to startle Mr. Graham's 
 family by driving unexpectedly to his house, we deter 
 mined to leave the carriage at mine and walk quietly over. 
 We had gone but a few steps from my door when we met 
 Mr. Graham. He colored, on seeing Mr. Dickinson, and 
 
 9
 
 98 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 would have turned off without stopping to speak to us. I 
 was sure from this, he had seen Jessie and heard her story, 
 and that he felt a little hurt that Mr. Dickinson should 
 have been so angry with her, for an accident which she 
 could not help. Before he could get out of our way, Mr. 
 Dickinson was up with him and said, " Excuse me for stop 
 ping you, Mr. Graham, but I have come to apologize to 
 your little girl for my anger to-day, which I find was very 
 unreasonable. I was told, sir, before she came to my 
 house, that she had been taught to be careful in a garden. 
 I find she has been well taught in more important things. 
 She is a noble child, sir. I shall ask her to appoint my 
 gardener, and if she offer the place to her father I hope he 
 will not refuse it, for I shall be pleased to have in my 
 employment a man so well principled as I am sure he 
 must be." 
 
 Mr. Graham was quite confused, and stood a little while 
 looking at Mr. Dickinson, as if he did not understand him ; 
 then seizing his hand, he said in a hoarse voice, while his 
 lip trembled like a child's, " God bless you, sir God bless 
 you. You have saved me from the greatest sorrow I ever 
 had not that I minded the money so much, sir, for thank 
 God, I am strong yet, and could work for it again but 
 my mother, sir my poor old mother, it would have killed 
 her, sir. I always thought it would, and this morning when 
 I summoned courage to tell her about it, though she tried 
 to talk cheerfully, I saw she was struck down, and I knew 
 if we went away, we should leave her behind she would 
 never live to go and now, oh sir ! I can only say again, 
 God bless you !" 
 
 Mr. Graham could not say another word, for the tears 
 came in spite of him, and covering his face with his hands, 
 he turned away from us, as if he did not like that we should 
 see him weep. He need not have been ashamed, for I was 
 sobbing, and even Mr. Dickinson's voice trembled as he 
 said, " It is your daughter you must bless, Mr. Graham ; 
 but we will leave you now, sir, for I am quite anxious to 
 make my peace with Jessie." 
 
 We both passed on, knowing that Mr. Graham would 
 rather be by himself while he was so agitated.
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 99 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A GOOD CONSCIENCE MAKES ALL PLEASANT. 
 
 WHEN we asked at the house for Jessie, we were told 
 she was not there, having followed her grandmother, who, 
 before she returned, had walked out. On inquiring in what 
 direction they had gone, we were shown a footpath which 
 led first across a field and then through a wood, down to a 
 stream of water on which a saw-mill had been built many 
 years ago. The old mill had been long out of order, and 
 the spot where it stood was so shut in by trees, and was so 
 still, that but for the occasional sound of a wagon rumbling 
 over a bridge not far ofF, or the merry whoop of a child at 
 play in the wood, you might have fancied, when there, that 
 there was not another person within miles of you. Mr. 
 Dickinson and I both knew the place well, and we walked 
 on quite briskly, he leading the way, for the path was too 
 narrow for even two persons to walk side by side. We 
 were quite silent, for Mr. Dickinson never talked much, 
 and I was engaged with my own pleasant thoughts. In 
 less than ten minutes we came in sight of the old mill, and 
 the open space around it. In this open space, near to the 
 stream, one large old oak had been left standing, the roots 
 of which grew out of the ground and then bent down into 
 it again, so as to form quite a comfortable seat. As we 
 came near this tree, we heard a child's voice speaking, and 
 Mr. Dickinson, supposing that Jessie was just telling her 
 tale to her grandmother, motioned to me to stop. As I 
 was quite sure that Jessie would tell the simple truth, I 
 had no hesitation in doing this. Mrs. Graham was seated 
 on the root of which I have told you. Her face was 
 towards the water, and she was leaning back against the 
 body of the tree. She had brought her knitting with her, 
 and her needles were moving as quickly and as constantly 
 as if she had been in her parlor at home. As we stood 
 we had a good side view of her, though she could only see 
 us by turning quite around. As Jessie sat on the grass at
 
 100 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 her grandmother's feet, she was quite hidden from us, ex 
 cept the back of her head, a part of her dress, and one 
 hand which rested on Mrs. Graham's lap. We soon found 
 that Jessie's story must have been told before we came, for 
 her voice ceased as I obeyed Mr. Dickinson's sign to stop, 
 and Mrs. Graham replied to her, " Yes, Jessie, this is one 
 of the places that I spoke to you of yesterday evening that 
 I love so well. Many a pleasant hour have I passed with 
 your dear grandfather under these shady trees, talking of 
 old friends and of our home across the sea, and this morn- 
 ing when I heard that we were to go to a new home among 
 strangers, I came here to mourn that I must leave it. But, 
 Jessie, this was wrong, and now I feel it was, for while my 
 child and my child's children are true and honest, I have 
 much more cause to be grateful than to grieve. If we 
 carry with us good consciences we shall find some pretti- 
 ness in every place and some good in every person." 
 
 " How is that, grandmother ? our goodness cannot make 
 them pretty and good." 
 
 "It does not make them so, Jessie, but it makes us feel 
 them to be so." 
 
 "I do not see how, grandmother." 
 
 " Look, Jessie, at the water, and tell me what you see 
 in it." 
 
 " The blue sky and a white cloud sailing over it, and the 
 trees on the other side the water is so clear, grandmother, 
 that I can see every leaf." 
 
 " Well, Jessie, when we came here last and the water 
 was low and muddy do you remember what you saw 
 then ?" 
 
 " I could hardly see any thing at all, grandmother, and 
 what I did see looked black and ugly." 
 
 " And yet, Jessie, there was the same bright bluajsky 
 above, and the same green trees on the other side. \ Now, 
 Jessie, there is some beauty and some goodness in every 
 thing God has made, and he who has a pure conscience is 
 like one looking into a clear stream ; he sees it all ; while 
 to him who has a bad conscience, all things look as you 
 say they did in the muddy stream black and ugly."! 
 
 "Now, grandmother, I know what you meaTTTnind I 
 know it is true too, for if I had told a story to-day, and so 
 father had got that pretty place, I am sure I never should
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 101 
 
 have liked it or thought it pretty again ; and then I should 
 have been afraid of Mr. Dickinson, and have felt as if he 
 made me tell the story, and so I should not have liked him. 
 But now, grandmother, I think he is a very good man, 
 though he is a little cross sometimes, and I do not feel afraid 
 of him at all." 
 
 " No, Jessie, those who do right are seldom afraid, for 
 you know the Bible says, ' the righteous are as bold as a 
 lion.' I am very glad, my child, of all that has happened 
 to you to-day. You may have harder trials of your truth 
 than even this before you die, but you will remember this 
 day, and how happy you have felt for telling the truth ; 
 and you will remember, too, if all the good things on 
 earth are offered to you as the price of one falsehood, that 
 your old grandmother told you truth is better than all, Jes 
 sie, truth is better than all. Will you not remember this, 
 Jessie ?" 
 
 " Yes, grandmother," said, the child, in a low earnest 
 voice. 
 
 " So may God bless you, my daughter," and Mrs. 
 Graham laid her hand solemnly on Jessie's head. 
 
 Mr. Dickinson and I had been unwilling to interrupt this 
 conversation, but he now stood aside that I might pass on, 
 as he thought they would be less startled at seeing me than 
 at seeing him. Jessie was the first to hear my step, and, 
 turning her head quickly, to see me. She was on her feet 
 in a moment, and said, with a bright happy smile, " Oh ! I 
 am so glad to see you, ma'am, for you will hear me, and I 
 can tell you how it was, and then I am sure you will not 
 be angry with me." 
 
 " I know all already, Jessie, and am only angry with 
 myself that I should have seemed displeased with you even 
 for a moment. No one is angry with you now, Jessie, and 
 Mr. Dickinson has come with me to tell you himself that 
 he is not." 
 
 " Oh ! ma'am !" said Jessie, with a little start, though 
 she had just said she did not feel at all afraid of him. She 
 looked around and saw Mr. Dickinson already standing 
 close beside her. 
 
 " Do not be afraid, Jessie," said he, " for, as your grand- 
 mother told you, those who do right need not fear any one. 
 If either of us should be afraid, it is I, for I was very un- 
 
 9*
 
 102 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 just to you in refusing to hear your excuses, when I might 
 have known, from what had already passed, that you would 
 have told me nothing but the truth. But I have heard all 
 since, Jessie, and have come to make amends for my in- 
 justice." 
 
 How Mr. Dickinson was to make amends to Jessie I 
 need not repeat to you, for you have heard it already. 
 But Jessie's joy this cannot be described. She was wild 
 with delight. Her grandmother was her first thought, and 
 as soon as she understood Mr. Dickinson, she was at her 
 side exclaiming, "Just hear, grandmother just hear! 
 Father is to have that pretty place after all, and it is just 
 by the church and you know, grandmother, you wanted 
 to be by the church. Oh, grandmother ! do tell Mr. Dick 
 inson how glad you are." 
 
 Mrs. Graham's gladness showed itself in a way that 
 Jessie did not quite understand. Tears sprang to her eyes 
 and rolled down her cheeks, while yet there was a smile 
 upon her lips ; and when she attempted to speak, her voice 
 was so choked with weeping that she could say nothing. 
 Surprised and disappointed, Jessie turned to Mr. Dickin 
 son, and as if to apologize for what seemed to her so 
 strange, said, " Indeed, sir, I am sure she is very glad, 
 though she is crying." 
 
 " I do not doubt it, Jessie," said Mr. Dickinson. 
 
 " I hope not, sir, I hope not," said Mrs. Graham, who 
 had by this time recovered her voice ; " I am both glad and 
 thankful first to Him," looking up to heaven, " who gave 
 you the heart to be so kind, and then to you, sir, whom I 
 hope God will bless for all your goodness." 
 
 Mr. Dickinson soon left us, having an engagement at 
 home. He was to take my carriage and send Harriot and 
 Mary, who had remained to spend the day with William, 
 back in it. I begged that they might leave his house in 
 time to be at home by five o'clock, and I invited Jessie to 
 come over at that hour to meet them. I will leave you to 
 imagine what a happy evening they passed, for though 
 they said a great deal, and it all seemed very pleasant at 
 the time, I doubt whether much of it would look very wise 
 when written down. I will tell you, however, of three 
 things which were decided upon. First Mary Mackay 
 promised to try to remember Mrs. Graham's lesson to Jessie,
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 103 
 
 that " truth is better than all," especially as Jessie assured 
 her that she had found it so ; for that even before she knew 
 of Mr. Dickinson's kind intentions, she had felt quite happy 
 at having told the truth happier a great deal than any 
 thing could have made her which she had gotten by telling 
 a story. Next, that Jessie was to have Mooly back again, 
 Harriet having begged her of me as a present for her friend. 
 Last, that when Mr. Graham had moved, Harriet and 
 Mary, and two or three other little girls, of whom the 
 first named was " Blind Alice,"* were to spend an evening 
 with Jessie. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE HAPPY PARTY. 
 
 IT was the first week in September before Mr. Graham 
 moved, and the beginning of the second before his family 
 were so settled as that Jessie could fulfil her promise of an 
 evening's entertainment to her young friends. They were 
 all invited the day before to come at four o'clock, that they 
 might have an hour to see all the beauties which Jessie 
 had discovered, and all the improvements which she had 
 made in her new home, and then, taking tea at five o'clock, 
 might all be at their homes again before the evening be 
 came chill. I had a whispered request from Jessie, that 
 though there were to be no grown ladies there, I would 
 just come with the children ; a request which you may 
 suppose I did not refuse. When the afternoon came, I took 
 Mary and Alice and two other little girls with me in the 
 carriage, while Harriet rode her own pony. Jessie was 
 waiting in the piazza to welcome us, and William Temple 
 stood gallantly ready to help us from the carriage ; and 
 before the hour was gone, every nook and corner of the 
 poultry-yard and garden had been explored. They were 
 
 * See the story of Blind Alice, by Aunt Kitty.
 
 104 JESSIE GRAHAM. 
 
 both in very nice order, and Alice, as Jessie led her around 
 the garden, was constantly exclaiming, " How delightful!" 
 while she inhaled the perfume of roses and pinks, and 
 honeysuckles and jessamines. It was too late for straw- 
 berries or raspberries, but when this garden was made, 
 Mr. Dickinson had had some fine peach and pear trees set 
 in it, and these were now covered with ripe fruit, and from 
 the grape-vine hung large clusters of the rich purple grape. 
 The table for the children was spread under the grape- 
 arbor, and when at five o'clock they were called to it, 
 they found, not cakes and sweetmeats and tea, but a 
 dish of warm, light biscuits, of Mrs. Graham's own making 
 a bowl of soft peaches with cream and sugar baskets 
 of pears and grapes, and a cup of Mooly's rich milk for 
 each child. The sun was low, and only a few of its rays 
 found their way through the reddish-colored grape-leaves 
 into the arbor ; and, sure I am, those rays never fell upon 
 a happier group. They were still enjoying their feast, 
 when hearing some one speak to Mr. Graham, who was 
 busy propping up an overloaded branch of a pear-tree, I 
 looked around and saw Mrs. Temple and Mr. Dickinson 
 with Flora Temple in his arms, coming towards the arbor. 
 
 " Mr. Graham," I heard Mr. Dickinson say, " why have 
 you not taken your little visiters through the other gar 
 den ?" 
 
 " Why, sir," said Mr. Graham, " though they are all very 
 good children, they are not just as used to gardens as Jes 
 sie, and they might be careless but if you would let me, 
 I would like to take that poor blind child through the green 
 house, for she is so fond of flowers, and I doubt if she ever 
 smelt a 'lemon blossom." 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Graham, I shall be pleased to have you 
 take her." 
 
 Mrs. Temple took Flora from her brother and joined the 
 little party under the arbor, while Mr. Dickinson remained 
 outside, seemingly engaged with Mr. Graham, but I sus 
 pect much more attentive to the merry voices of the chil 
 dren. At length William called him in, and I am sure no 
 one who saw him then for the first time would have called 
 him " the cross Mr. Dickinson." I said this to old Mrs. 
 Graham, and her reply was, " Nothing, I think, ma'am, 
 makes people so pleasant and good-humored as seeing hap-
 
 
 JESSIE GRAHAM. 105 
 
 py faces, especially when they know, as Mr. Dickinson 
 does, that they made the happiness." 
 
 Our party separated in good time, but not before Mr. 
 Graham had taken Alice to the green-house. She went 
 with him, not knowing where he was taking her, and was 
 so delighted with the strange perfume, and so curious to 
 know from what it came, that Mr. Dickinson, who had fol 
 lowed them, cut off a cluster of flowers from a lemon-tree 
 for her. After this, the highest expression of satisfaction 
 with any thing which Alice ever gave, was to say, "It is 
 almost as pleasant as Mr. Dickinson's green-house." 
 
 When William was leading me to the carriage, he beg 
 ged me to put my head down, as he wanted to tell me a 
 secret. I did so, and he whispered, " I am coming to spend 
 Christmas with my uncle, and I told him I wanted to see a 
 play acted, for I never saw one ; and he says I shall see 
 one then and act in it too, and he will write it himself, and 
 it is to be called, "All for Truth, or the Flower well 
 Lost." 
 
 That I shall have an invitation to see this play I have 
 little doubt ; so my next story for you may be of Christmas 
 merry-making at Flowerhill at the cross Mr. Dickinson's. 
 Let this teach my little readers, that if children are good 
 and pleasant themselves, they will seldom find any one cross 
 to them long. 
 
 THE END.
 
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT: 
 
 OR, 
 
 IS SHE GENEROUS? 

 
 

 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A WINTER MORNING. 
 
 WHEN last I took leave of myyoung friends, it was au 
 tumn, and we were looking forward to ChristnTas enter 
 tainments at Flowerhill, where a play written by Mr. 
 Dickinson himself was to be acted. Those of you who 
 have read Jessie Graham, may remember that I thought it 
 probable my next story for you would be of these enter 
 tainments. 
 
 Mr. Dickinson kept his promise. The play was writ 
 ten ; and a fortnight before Christmas, came William Tem 
 ple, full of joyful expectation. The day after his arrival 
 he rode over with his uncle to see me, and to invite Har 
 riet and Mary to be at Flowerhill the next morning, to 
 hear the play read, and to receive their parts, for parts they 
 were both to have. Soon after Mr. Dickinson and Wil 
 liam left us, the sky was overcast with heavy clouds, which, 
 as evening approached, became more and more wild and 
 dark. I predicted a snow-storm, and Harriet and Mary 
 went to sleep with little hope of being able to fulfil their 
 engagement. 
 
 The snow-storm came, but it lasted only a few hours of 
 the night, and the next morning's sun rose clear and bright. 
 Bright indeed, dazzlingly bright, as its rays fell on the 
 pure, white snow with which the whole ground was cover 
 ed, or shone through the icicles, with which every tree was 
 hung, making them look like glittering diamonds, in each 
 of which there seemed a tiny rainbow. 
 
 I had ordered the carriage at an early hour, and we had 
 scarcely breakfasted when the merry jingle of the sleigh- 
 bells told that it was at the door. Even the horses seemed 
 10
 
 110 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 gayer than usual, and whirled us along so rapidly, that 
 had not the reins been in the hands of Henry, whom I 
 knew to be the steadiest and most careful coachman in the 
 country, I should have been half frightened. William saw 
 us from the parlor window, and had the door open for us 
 as soon as we were out of the sleigh. We were just cold 
 enough to enjoy the warm parlor ; and as we drew close 
 to the blazing wood fire, Mary exclaimed, " Aunt Kitty, do 
 you not wish it was always winter ?" 
 
 " No, Mary, for I love spring flowers and summer and 
 autumn fruits." 
 
 " Oh ! I had forgotten them," said Mary, " but I am very 
 glad there is a winter too." 
 
 " So am I, Mary, very glad, and very thankful to Him 
 who gives us the varying pleasures which make each sea 
 son welcome." 
 
 We were interrupted by Mr. Dickinson, who came in 
 with the play. He read it for us, and I am sure no play 
 was ever heard with more pleasure. Harriet and Mary 
 received their parts, and were now quite impatient to get 
 home, that they might begin to study them. 
 
 This pleasant morning visit was all which I saw of the 
 Christmas entertainments at Flowerhill, for on my return 
 home, I found a carriage waiting for me, and a letter re 
 questing me to come to a very dear friend, who was both ill 
 and in trouble, and needed a nurse and a comforter. You 
 may be sure that I made no delay in complying with this 
 request ; but before I tell you any thing of my visit, I 
 would give you some account of my friend, Mrs. Arnott, 
 and of her daughter Florence, as she had appeared to me 
 about eighteen months before, when I had spent some weeks 
 with her mother under very different circumstances. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE VISIT. 
 
 MRS. ARNOTT was younger than I, yet not so much 
 younger but that we had been playmates in childhood. As
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. Ill 
 
 we grew older we continued warm friends. When she 
 married, I rejoiced in her happy prospects, and found but 
 one thing in Mr. Arnott I would have desired to change 
 he lived thirty miles from me, and this was felt as a wide 
 separation between friends who had been accustomed to 
 meet every day. I soon found that the separation was to 
 be much greater. Mr. Arnott liked travelling, had a large 
 fortune, and little to do. He took his wife to England ; 
 and after travelling in England, Scotland, and Wales, they 
 passed over to the continent of Europe, and having seen 
 whatever was of most interest in France, Switzerland, 
 and Germany, went into Italy, and spent more than a 
 year in the city of Florence. Here their little girl was 
 born, and received her name in remembrance of a home 
 which they had found very agreeable. When Florence 
 was about two years old, her father and mother return 
 ed to America. They came in the autumn, and joyfully 
 as I welcomed back my friend, I soon began to fear that 
 she would not be able to spend many winters with us. 
 Her constitution had always been delicate, and her long 
 abode in the soft, warm climate of Italy, seemed to have 
 unfitted her completely for the endurance of our rough and 
 cold northern winters. The first winter she went out very 
 seldom, the second not at all, and the third she showed 
 symptoms of serious illness so early, that her physician ad 
 vised Mr. Arnott to take her at once to a more southern 
 climate. They went to Florida, and their delightful coun 
 try place was again let for several years, while they spent 
 their winters at the south and their summers in travelling 
 through the middle and northern states. 
 
 In this way, Mrs. Arnott seemed gradually to acquire 
 more vigorous health, yet it was not till Florence was more 
 than ten years old, that they returned to their own home 
 with some hope of being able to remain at it during the 
 whole year. As soon as they began to feel themselves 
 settled, Mrs. Arnott wrote to ask a visit from me, request 
 ing that I would bring my nieces, Harriet Armand and 
 Mary Mackay, with me. She was very urgent in this last 
 request, saying, that she hoped to benefit her little Florence 
 by the society of children of nearly her own age, who had 
 been as carefully educated as she knew Harriet and Mary 
 had been. I will copy for you a part of my friend's letter,
 
 112 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 from which I gained some knowledge of the disposition of 
 Florence, even before I made this visit. 
 
 " You will soon see," wrote Mrs. Arnott, " that my little 
 girl's education has been sadly neglected. By her educa 
 tion, I do not mean what is ordinarily taught in schools. 
 Wherever we have made our home, even for a few months, 
 we have procured for her the best teachers we could find, 
 and as she is a child of quick mind, she is quite as well in- 
 formed as most children of her age. But to the education 
 of her heart, which I know you will think with me of far 
 more importance, no attention has been paid. Her father's 
 extreme indulgence to this only child, my feeble health, 
 and our roving life, have left her so unrestrained, that I 
 begin to fear she is becoming very self-willed. Yet her 
 temper is naturally so amiable, and her feelings so affec 
 tionate, she is so anxious to please those she loves, and so 
 grieved at the least appearance of blame from them, that I 
 hope it will not be difficult to correct her faults." 
 
 As I felt much interested in this little girl, and thought, 
 with her mother, that the association with other and more 
 carefully taught children might be serviceable to her, I de 
 termined at once to accept the invitation for Harriet and 
 myself, and if my brother and Mrs. MUckay would consent, 
 for Mary too. Indeed, I hoped more advantage for Flor 
 ence from the companionship of Mary than of Harriet. 
 Harriet was so gentle, and would yield to her young friend 
 so quietly, that Florence would seldom discover from her 
 how much she was yielding, and how unreasonable her 
 own exactions were. But Mary had a strong will, and 
 though she had been taught that she must on many occa 
 sions submit to the will of others, it was always done with 
 a very great effort. I was quite sure, therefore, that Flor 
 ence would know whenever Mary yielded a point to her, 
 and moreover, that she would be very plainly informed if 
 Mary thought her demands unreasonable. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Mackay readily consented that Mary should 
 go with me, and Mary was always pleased with the pros 
 pect of a visit, especially if the visit could be made with 
 Harriet and Aunt Kitty. Of my designs for the improve 
 ment of Florence, I did not, of course, say any thing to 
 either of my nieces. 
 
 Our visit was made in June, when it was too warm to
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 113 
 
 travel in midday, so, rising very early, we were five miles 
 from home before the sun rose ; and before it became un 
 comfortably warm, had gone seventeen miles, to a little 
 village where we were to dine, rest our horses, and remain 
 quiet till the afternoon became cool, when fourteen miles 
 more of travelling would bring us to Mr. Arnott's. We 
 arrived there just about sunset. Florence was playing on 
 the green before the door with a little dog, which ran jump 
 ing and barking beside her, when the carriage swept round 
 a turn of the road, which brought us in sight of the house. 
 
 Florence had travelled too much, and been, therefore, 
 too much accustomed to new faces, to run away from us, 
 even had we been strangers, and we were not strangers, 
 for she had seen us all in the preceding summer, when her 
 mother had made a visit of a few days in our neighborhood ; 
 so, instead of running away, she called out, on seeing us, 
 " Papa, mamma, here they come !" and opening the gate, 
 stood ready to receive us, with a face full of smiles. 
 
 Bed-time soon follows sunset in summer, at least for chil 
 dren. Yet it came not too soon this evening for Harriet 
 and Mary, who were tired by their thirty miles travelling. 
 But Florence thought it very unkind in them to leave her 
 so soon "this first evening." Her entreaties were so ur 
 gent that they would stay a little while longer, that her 
 young companions would have found some difficulty in get 
 ting away without aid from me. Taking Florence's hand, 
 as she was endeavoring to hold Harriet and Mary back 
 from following the servant, who was going to show them 
 their bed, I said, " Did you hear me tell those little girls 
 that they must go to bed ?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied ; "but they have been here such a 
 little time, and it is so early yet ; I only want them to stay 
 a little longer." 
 
 " I do not doubt they would try to oblige you, though 
 they are tired and sleepy, but they are accustomed to do 
 just as I wish them ; and I wish them to go to bed at once. 
 You will have a long summer's day for talk and play to 
 morrow, and only a short summer's night for sleep. So 
 now bid them good-night ; and I think you had better go 
 too, for I shall call you up very early in the morning, as I 
 expect you to show me the garden and the dairy before 
 breakfast." 
 
 10*
 
 114 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 " And the fish-pond, too," said Florence, "the fish-pond, 
 too." 
 
 " Is there a fish-pond, too ? Well, all these will require 
 us to rise early, shall I bid you good-night, too ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I may as well go," said she, looking around and 
 seeing that Harriet and Mary were already gone. 
 
 So closed the first evening of our visit. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE SWING. 
 
 THE morning was cloudless, and the garden looked beau 
 tifully, with its leaves and flowers glittering with dew- 
 drops. But I only saw it from my window, for though 
 Harriet and Mary, starting from sleep at the first sound of 
 my voice, sprang eagerly up, and, dressing in haste, waited 
 impatiently for the tap of Florence, which was to summon 
 us to our morning walk ; they waited in vain. Florence 
 could not be awoke, or when awake, could not be induced 
 to rise ; and breakfast was announced, and we were all 
 seated at table before she made her appearance. She looked 
 far more discontented and dull than those whom she had 
 disappointed. This did not surprise me, for I knew she 
 could not feel very well pleased with herself; and those 
 who are not, are seldom pleased with others. 
 
 " Well, Florence," said her father, " so you have slept 
 so long that your friends have lost this fine morning in 
 waiting for you, and have seen nothing of all you promised 
 last evening to show them." 
 
 Florence colored, hung her head, and replied in rather 
 * sulky tone, " I could not wake myself." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Arnott, " but" 
 
 "Come, Mr. Arnott," said I, interrupting him, "the 
 disappointment is past we have many other pleasures in 
 store for to-day, we can afford to postpone this one ; and I 
 doubt not Florence will be ready in time to-morrow. To 
 secure it I will call her myself. May I, Florence ?"
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 115 
 
 She looked pleased, and replied promptly, " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 I had two reasons for interrupting Mr. Arnott. One was, 
 I thought Florence was already so much grieved and dis 
 appointed that it was useless to distress her farther. An 
 other, and perhaps a more important reason was, that I 
 wished to serve this little girl by helping her to correct her 
 faults ; and I felt that in order to be able to do this, it was 
 quite necessary that she should learn to love me, to place 
 confidence in my kindness, and take pleasure in my society. 
 Now you will readily see that she would not be likely to 
 do any of these things, if through me she were made to feel 
 uncomfortably. 
 
 After breakfast, Mr. Arnott invited the children to take 
 a walk with him, adding, " I have something to show you, 
 which even Florence has not seen." 
 
 " Which I have not seen ? What can it be ? Do, papa, 
 tell me what it is," said Florence, coming back from the 
 door, which she had reached on her way for her bonnet. 
 
 " You will know in a few minutes," said Mr. Arnott, 
 " that is, if you will put on your bonnet and come with me, 
 instead of keeping us all waiting. See, Harriet and Mary 
 are ready," pointing to them as they now entered the par 
 lor. 
 
 Florence ran off for her bonnet,, saying, however, as she 
 went, " I will ask nursey if she knows, I am sure she 
 will tell me." 
 
 " She does not know," Mr. Arnott called out. 
 
 As I love pleasant surprises, especially when children 
 are to enjoy the pleasure, this little mystery was a tempta 
 tion to join the walkers too strong for me to resist, so before 
 Florence came back, I was ready too, and went off as full 
 of curiosity and pleased expectation as any of the party. 
 Mr. Arnott led us through the garden into the orchard be 
 yond it. As we entered the garden, Florence said, " Now 
 I know what it is, papa you are going to show us a new 
 flower." 
 
 " Indeed, I am not, Florence." 
 
 As we passed into the orchard, she suddenly exclaimed, 
 " Now I have it, papa, now I have it ; the cherries we 
 were looking at the other day are ripe, and you are going 
 to get us some." 
 
 Her father smiled, but said nothing.
 
 116 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 " That is it, papa, is it not ?" 
 
 "Wait a few minutes, Florence, and you will see." 
 
 " Well, I give it up, now, for we have passed all the 
 cherry-trees." 
 
 Mr. Arnott turned towards a wood which skirted the or 
 chard on the north, and long before we reached it the se 
 cret was told ; for, on the stoutest branch of a magnificent 
 oak, which he had, by removing his fence, enclosed within 
 the orchard, hung a swing a new and strongly made 
 swing, with a very comfortable seat. We all quickened 
 our pace as we came in sight of it, and many were the ex 
 clamations of admiration and delight from the children. 
 
 " Such a beautiful swing, under such a cool, shady tree, 
 how delightful !" 
 
 Florence jumped, danced, clapped her hands, and at 
 length darted off, and, bounding into the swing, called to 
 her father, " Come quick, quick, papa, and swing me." 
 
 " After I have swung your friends, my dear." 
 
 Florence looked disappointed, and both Harriet and Ma 
 ry drew back, saying, " Oh no, sir ! Swing Florence first." 
 
 Mr. Arnott saw that to persist in his politeness would 
 distress them, so saying, " I will swing you twelve times, 
 Florence," he touched the swing, and away it rose, rapidly 
 yet steadily, through the air, higher and higher each time, 
 till, as Mr. Arnott counted twelve, Florence shrieked, half 
 with fear and half with delight. Mr. Arnott caught the 
 swing as it descended, and stopped it. 
 
 " Oh papa ! is that twelve ?" 
 
 " Yes, Florence ; did you not hear me count ?" 
 
 " Well, just once more, papa." 
 
 Mr. Arnott stooped and whispered to her she reddened, 
 and getting down slowly, said, " Now, Harriet, you get in." 
 
 Harriet got in, and counting for herself, sprang out as 
 the swing descended for the twelfth time. Mary had her 
 turn, and looked so well pleased, that, had her father been 
 in Mr. Arnott's place, she would, I doubt not, have said, 
 like Florence, " Just once more, papa." As she came out 
 Florence again sprang in. 
 
 " Now, papa, once, only once or twice," she added, as 
 her father extended his arm at her entreaty. 
 
 But after giving one toss to the swing, Mr. Arnott turned 
 resolutely away, saying, " You are never satisfied, Flor-
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 117 
 
 ence, but I will not indulge you any farther this morning, 
 for the sun is getting too warm for any of you to be here 
 longer in the cool of the evening we will try it again." 
 
 Florence looked not very well pleased, but as we all 
 turned towards the house, she came out and followed us. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 GIVING. ; 
 
 I DO not intend to give you a history of what was done 
 by the children each day of our visit, for this would make 
 a very long story. When it was fine weather they helped 
 the gardener, as they said, or hindered him, as Tie sometimes 
 complained walked in the orchard, looking for ripe fruit 
 or swung, and on a cool evening Mr. Arnott would some 
 times take them out on the river in a pretty little sailing 
 boat, or drive them two or thee miles in a light, open car- 
 riage. When it rained, they overhauled Florence's toys, 
 of which there were trunks full, or amused themselves with 
 her books. They seemed to agree very well, at least we 
 heard of no disagreements, though I fancied, towards the 
 latter part of our stay, that I sometimes saw a cloud on 
 Mary's brow, but I asked no questions, and it passed off 
 without any complaint. 
 
 One afternoon, when we had been there about a week, 
 as Mr. and Mrs. Arnott and I were seated in the piazza 
 enjoying the pleasant breeze, the children rushed in from 
 the garden, seeming very anxious to give us some informa 
 tion, which, as each tried to speak louder than the others, it 
 was quite impossible for some time for us to understand. 
 At length, by hearing a little from each, we made out that 
 there were ripe strawberries in the neighborhood really 
 ripe for the gardener had seen them, and he said they 
 were as large around as his thumb. 
 
 " And you want me to send for some," Mr. Arnott be 
 gan, but, " Oh no, papa !" " Oh no, sir !" every voice 
 again exclaimed, " we want to go for them."
 
 118 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 " Go for them ! and pray, young ladies, how will you 
 go ? am I to drive you ?" 
 
 " Oh no, papa ! we want to walk ; and Andrew" this 
 was the name of Mr. Arnott's gardener " says they will 
 let us go into the garden and pick them ourselves and you 
 know, mamma, Eliza can go with us and carry our bas 
 kets," added Florence, anticipating her mother's objection 
 to their going without some attendant to a place a mile off. 
 
 And so it was arranged, and in a few minutes they set 
 out, Eliza carrying the baskets, and each taking a shilling 
 to pay for her berries. It seems they had gone only about 
 half-way, when they met a poor woman with a sick child 
 in her arms, sitting to rest herself in the shade by the side 
 of the road. The woman looked so pale and sad that the 
 servant, Eliza, who was a kindhearted girl, spoke to her, 
 and asked what was the matter ? 
 
 " Sick and weary," said the poor woman. 
 
 " But how did you come to be in the road here by your 
 self? and where are you going?" asked Florence. 
 
 " Why you see, Miss, I have been to the city, where a 
 great many people told me that I might make twice as 
 much money without slaving myself to death, as I was 
 doing, for the children ; and so I took this baby and went ; 
 but the baby fell sick, and indeed I think the city air did 
 not suit either of us, for I fell sick too, and could not work 
 at all, and I longed so to get home and smell the country 
 air, and see the other children and friends' faces, instead 
 of strangers, strangers always, that, as soon as I could 
 walk, I set out, and thank God, I have got only eight miles 
 more to walk, for I live at M ." 
 
 " But why do you walk ?" asked the children. 
 
 " Ah, young ladies, poor folks that have not any money 
 to pay for rides, must walk. As long as my money held 
 out I got a ride on a cart now and then for a sixpence, 
 or a shilling, and that was a great help ; but I have not 
 even a sixpence left now to buy a bit of bread if I was 
 ever so hungry." 
 
 In a moment Harriet's shilling was in the poor woman's 
 hand ; Mary's followed. She burst into tears, and thanked 
 them again and again. Florence looked at her shilling, 
 then at the woman, and said, " I have half a dollar at 
 home, and that is four times as much as a shilling, you
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 119 
 
 know, and if you will wait here till I have got the strawber 
 ries I am going for, you can go back with me and I will 
 give you that." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear young lady," said the poor crea 
 ture, " but I hope to get home this evening, and that I shall 
 not do if I stop and go back on my way yet," she added, 
 " half a dollar is a' great deal. I wish I were not so 
 tired." 
 
 " Florence," cried Harriet and Mary, both at once, " I 
 will go back for the money if you will tell me where it is, 
 and the poor woman can rest here till I come back." 
 
 " My good woman," said Eliza, " you are not fit to 
 walk or even to ride eight miles to-night. Now our gar 
 dener's wife has a spare room in her house, and she is a 
 kind woman, and will do every thing she can to make you 
 comfortable ; and to-morrow morning, I dare say, the gar 
 dener can get you a lift on some farmer's cart all the way 
 to M. So now, instead of waiting here, you had better go 
 back at once, and Miss Florence can give you the half dol 
 lar when she comes home." 
 
 " Yes, I will give you the half dollar," said Florence, 
 " and that," she repeated, turning to Mary, " is four times 
 as much as a shilling, you know." 
 
 So it was arranged the woman went back the gar 
 dener's wife accommodated her the gardener found a farm 
 er going to M. the next morning, who promised to take 
 her there on his cart and when Florence came home she 
 gave her the half dollar, which, being four times as much 
 as a shilling, evidently made her, in her own opinion, and 
 in Mary's too, four times as generous as Harriet or herself. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GENEROSITY. 
 
 A FEW days after the events related in the last chapter, 
 Mary came into my room to show me a basket and a doll's 
 dress which Florence had given her. They were neither
 
 120 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 of them quite new, but they were not at all the worse for 
 wear, and Mary was quite delighted with them, and with 
 Florence for giving them. "Aunt Kitty, I do love Flor 
 ence," said she, " she is so generous." 
 
 "Is she, my dear ?" said I, in a very quiet tone. 
 
 " Why yes, Aunt Kitty, do you not see what she has 
 given me ? and she has a book for Harriet, a very pretty 
 book, which she means to give her when she is going 
 away, and she gives away money ; you know she gave 
 half a dollar to that poor woman the other day." 
 
 " All this, Mary, does not prove that Florence is gener 
 ous." 
 
 " Well, I do not see, Aunt Kitty, how anybody can be 
 more generous than to give away their playthings, and 
 their books, and their money." 
 
 At this moment Harriet entered the room. Mary, from 
 thinking that I was opposed to her in opinion, had become 
 very much in earnest on the subject, and she called out, 
 " I am very glad you are come, Harriet. Only think, Aunt 
 Kitty does not think Florence is generous. Now Harriet, 
 is she not generous is she not very generous ?" 
 
 " I do not know, Mary, sometimes she is, but I did not 
 think she was the other day, when she would not give her 
 ripe plum to that poor sick child who wanted it so much." 
 
 Mary colored; "But, Harriet, I am sure the wooden 
 horse she gave him was worth more than a dozen plums." 
 
 " I dare say it was, Mary, but the child did not want 
 that." 
 
 Mary became now a little angry, as she was apt to do 
 when she could not convince those with whom she was 
 arguing. 
 
 " Well, Harriet, I think it is very unkind in you to speak 
 so of Florence, and to say she is not generous, when she 
 thinks so much of you." 
 
 " Stop, stop, Mary," said I, " you are now as unjust to 
 Harriet as you accuse her of being to Florence. She did 
 not say that Florence was not generous, but only that she 
 had not made up her mind on that subject, that she had 
 not seen enough to convince her that she was ; and this, 
 remember, was all which I said. Florence may be as 
 generous as you think her, but you have not told me enough 
 to convince me of it. When we have known her longer
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 121 
 
 we shall all be able to judge better what she is. In the 
 mean time I am very glad you like her, for I am very much 
 interested in her myself." 
 
 " Well, Aunt Kitty, I do like her," said Mary, in a very 
 energetic manner, " and I am sure I shall never be any 
 better able to judge her than I am now." 
 
 I made no reply, and the conversation ended. 
 
 Mary did not forget it, however, nor feel quite satisfied 
 with its termination, for the next morning, as I was sitting 
 in my room alone, she came in, and after moving about a 
 little while, seated herself by me and said, " Aunt Kitty, I 
 want to ask you a question." 
 
 " Well, my dear, what is it ?" 
 
 " I want to know when you do think a person is gener 
 ous ?" 
 
 " A person is generous, Mary, when he gives up his 
 own gratification or advantage for the gratification or ad 
 vantage of another." 
 
 " Well, that was what I always thought, Aunt Kitty 
 and now I am sure a little girl does that when she gives 
 away her books and her playthings, and her money, does 
 she not ?" 
 
 " When a little girl becomes tired of books and play 
 things, Mary, they cease to amuse her, do they not ?" 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, " if she .get tired of 
 them, but I never get tired of books and playthings if 
 they are pretty." 
 
 " Perhaps you may not, my dear," I replied, " but some 
 other little girls do, and those little girls are most apt to do 
 so who have the greatest number of such things. Now, 
 should they give away those of which they are tired 
 which had ceased to amuse them could you say they had 
 given up a gratification ?" 
 
 " No, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, speaking very slowly, 
 for she was beginning to understand my meaning. 
 
 " Then this would not be what we mean by being gener 
 ous?" 
 
 " No, Aunt Kitty, but money you know nobody gets 
 tired of money suppose a little girl gives that." 
 
 " Well, Mary, suppose she gives money, and that she 
 knows when giving it that some kind friend will replace 
 it, or indeed, give her a yet larger sum to encourage what 
 11
 
 122 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 he thinks a good feeling could you say she had given up 
 a gratification would this prove her to be very gener 
 ous ?" 
 
 As I asked this question I looked in Mary's face with 
 a smile, the smile she gave me in return was plainly 
 forced. 
 
 After waiting a moment, during which she seemed to be 
 thinking very deeply, she spoke again. " Well, Aunt 
 Kitty, but suppose she is not tired of the books and play 
 things, and does not expect to get the money back ?" 
 
 Mary felt quite sure of her ground now, and looked 
 steadily in my face. " Then, Mary, she would be a gener 
 ous girl, provided she did not expect to receive in exchange 
 for her gift some other selfish gratification or advantage 
 which she valued yet more highly." 
 
 Again Mary was silent and thoughtful for a while, then 
 said, " Why, Aunt Kitty, I heard my father say once, when 
 he gave some money to help some poor sick soldiers, that 
 it was a great gratification to him ; did that make him not 
 generous ?" 
 
 " No, no, Mary, for that was not a selfish gratification. 
 That gratification was caused by the good which he knew 
 the money would do them, but if your father had given 
 it for the praise which he expected to receive for so doing, 
 or if he had done it to please persons from whom he hoped 
 afterwards to receive some other favor in return would he 
 have been generous, do you think ?" 
 
 " No, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, promptly. 
 
 " I think, Mary, you are now beginning to understand 
 fully what generosity is. Remember, to be generous, you 
 must not only give up something but it must be some 
 thing you value something which is a gratification or ad 
 vantage to you and you must give it up for the gratifica 
 tion or advantage of another. Ignorant or thoughtless peo 
 ple sometimes call a person generous because he is care 
 less of money, and throws it away on foolish, useless things ; 
 do you think him so ?" 
 
 " No, Aunt Kitty." 
 
 "And why not, my dear?" Mary hesitated. "I have 
 been teaching you a useful lesson, Mary," said I, " and I 
 would see if you have learned it well, tell me, then, why 
 you would not think such a person generous."
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 123 
 
 " Because, Aunt Kitty, what he gives up is not for the 
 gratification or advantage of another." 
 
 " Right, my love, you have learned your lesson well, and 
 will, I hope, often put it in practice." 
 
 At this moment, Harriet put her head into the room, call- 
 ing out, " Mary, do come and see how Florence has dressed 
 up Rover." 
 
 Rover was the name of ,a dog which had been lately 
 given to Florence, and which was a great pet with her. 
 Away ran Mary all her grave thoughts quite forgotten 
 far the present. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PARTING SCENES. 
 
 THOUGH Mrs. Arnott's health was, as I have said, so 
 much improved that she now hoped to be able to remain 
 through the winter at her own home, Mr. Arnott was desi 
 rous that she should spend some weeks of the summer at 
 the warm springs of Virginia, from the waters of which she 
 had always seemed to derive great benefit. Mrs. Arnott 
 was quite willing to do any thing by which she might hope 
 that her health would continue to improve, but she ac 
 knowledged to me that the idea of taking Florence there 
 distressed her. 
 
 " Since I have been at home," she said, " and have been 
 able to observe closely my child's habits and temper, I see 
 much reason to fear that she has already suffered greatly 
 from the careless indulgence which can scarcely be avoided 
 when we are always surrounded by strangers. She is now 
 almost eleven years old, and I feel there is no time to be 
 lost in endeavoring to correct the faults of her character, 
 and that this can only be done by a degree of watchful 
 ness, and of steady, yet gentle control, which I know 
 from experience it is impossible to exercise either in travel 
 ling or at a crowded watering-place." 
 
 " Why should you take Florence with you ?" I asked. 
 
 " What else can I do with her?"
 
 124 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 "Send her home with me. You will not be gone, Mr. 
 Arnott says, more than six weeks. For an object so im 
 portant as your child's improvement, you will not, I am 
 sure, my dear friend, hesitate to separate yourself from her 
 for so short a time. You know nothing pleases me more 
 than to surround myself with children ; and though I ac 
 knowledge there is no teacher like a mother, when the choice 
 lies between a mother at a watering-place, and " 
 
 " There is no room to hesitate," said Mrs. Arnott, inter 
 rupting me : "I should rejoice to have Florence with you 
 even were I to remain at home ; and if I can win her con 
 sent, your invitation will be gladly and thankfully accepted, 
 for of her father's wishes I have not a doubt." 
 
 " Well," said I, " you will remember that I leave you in 
 two days, so that you have little time to lose in deciding." 
 
 " To-morrow," said Mrs. Arnott, " to-morrow I will 
 speak to Florence ; then if she give her consent, there will 
 be no time for change." 
 
 The morrow came, and when I met Mr. Arnott, he said 
 to me in a low voice, which was unheard by any other per 
 son, " I am very much obliged to you for your offer to re 
 lieve us and benefit our little daughter, for a great benefit I 
 am sure it will be to Florence to be placed with other chil 
 dren, and under what I know will be your kind and gentle, 
 yet firm influence." 
 
 Mrs. Arnott looked pale and sad, and complained of a 
 bad headache. As I saw her look tenderly at Florence, 
 and heard how her voice softened in speaking to her, I knew 
 what caused both her headache and her paleness. It was 
 the thought of parting with her child for the first time in 
 her life. The separation would, I knew, be very painful to 
 this fond mother ; but I also knew that she would willingly 
 bear the pain to herself, for the advantage which she hoped 
 Florence would derive from it. 
 
 After breakfast, Mrs. Arnott and I passed into another 
 room, where we had been accustomed to spend the morn 
 ing, because it was at that time of the day shaded and 
 cool. We had scarcely entered when the three children 
 passed the window near which we sat. They seemed 
 very merry, amusing themselves with the wonderful but 
 awkward efforts made by Rover to catch an elastic ball 
 that Florence was tossing up.
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 125 
 
 Mrs. Arnott called Florence. 
 
 " What is it, mamma ?" said she, scarcely stopping from 
 her play long enough to look around. 
 
 " Come here, my daughter, I have something to say to 
 you." 
 
 Florence came to the window. 
 
 " No, Florence, you must come in, I want to talk to 
 you a little." 
 
 For a moment Florence's countenance was clouded ; but 
 it was only for a moment, when, laughing, she cri?d out, 
 " Here, Rover, here, sir come in with me, Rover, for 
 mamma wants to talk to me, and while she is talking you 
 can be playing ball," and she came racing in, Rover at 
 her heels, and Harriet and Mary following to see the fun. 
 
 Mrs. Arnott pressed her hand to her forehead, and I 
 saw that all this uproar increased her headache, but it was 
 impossible for several seconds to make the children hear 
 us. At length I succeeded in silencing Harriet and Mary, 
 and in making Florence understand that the noise gave 
 her mother pain, and that she had better send Rover out. 
 
 " Does mamma's head ache ?" she said ; " I am sorry 
 for it but just see Rover, mamma, try to catch this ball 
 just see him once do, mamma that can't hurt you, I 
 am sure, and it is so funny." 
 
 Before I could remonstrate, or Mrs. Arnott could refuse, 
 if she intended to refuse, the ball was thrown. Again 
 Rover, who had been watching every movement of Flor 
 ence, was barking, leaping, and turning somersets in the 
 air ; and again the children were laughing, Florence as 
 loudly as ever, and Harriet and Mary with quite as much 
 enjoyment, though a little less noise. As I found speaking 
 of little use, I stepped up quietly to the merry group, and, 
 catching the ball as it rebounded from the floor, put a stop 
 at once to their mirth and Rover's efforts. 
 
 " Now, my dear," said I to Florence, " your mother 
 wants to speak a few words to you, so sit down quietly by 
 her while I take Rover out, for she is in too much pain to 
 be amused by him." 
 
 Florence looked surprised, and for a moment not very 
 well pleased, but as she found that I spoke gently and 
 pleasantly to the dog, and praised his beauty, while he 
 ran good-humoredly by my side, rubbing his curly head 
 
 11*
 
 126 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 against me, her countenance brightened, and she seated 
 herself without any objection. I beckoned to Harriet and 
 Mary to follow me, and when we were out of the room, I 
 gave Rover and the ball into their charge. Telling them 
 to wait in the piazza for Florence, and obtaining from 
 them a promise that they would be very quiet, I returned. 
 I had left the door of the room open, and as I reached it, 
 I heard Florence say, " Oh no, mamma ! I had a great 
 deal rather go to the Springs with you and papa." At 
 this moment she heard my step, and turning, looked quite 
 confused as her eye met mine. 
 
 " Do not be ashamed, Florence," said I, " that I should 
 have heard you. I should be sorry if you did not love 
 your papa and mamma well enough to prefer their com 
 pany to mine ; but I hope you love them so well that you 
 will do cheerfully what is not quite so pleasant to yourself, 
 when you are told that it will please them." Florence 
 hung her head, looked very grave, and said nothing. 
 " Speak, Florence," said I, " would you not be willing, 
 for your mother's sake, to do what might not be very 
 pleasant to yourself?" 
 
 After a little hesitation, Florence, without raising her 
 head, said in a dissatisfied tone, " I don't see what good it 
 could do mamma for me to go where I do not want to go." 
 
 I would have told Florence of her mother's delicate 
 health, and of how much more benefit she would probably 
 receive from travelling if she could be free from care ; 
 but Mrs. Arnott, seeming to think there was little hope 
 of influencing Florence in this way, interrupted me, say 
 ing, " But, my love, why should you not wish to go home 
 with Harriet and Mary ? You know how much you en 
 joyed your visit of two or three days to them last summer, 
 and Harriet has since then got a pony you might ride 
 on horseback if you went now." 
 
 "Will she let me ride him?" asked Florence, looking 
 up at me with sudden animation. 
 
 " I am sure she will," I replied. 
 
 " And may I carry Rover ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, then, I will go, for I should like to ride on 
 horseback ; and then, mamma, I'll have Rover with me, 
 and how odd it will be to see him jumping up and trying
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 127 
 
 to get to me on the horse, just as he tried to-day to catch 
 the ball," and she laughed out, and was again all smiles 
 and good-humor. 
 
 The consent of Florence having been obtained, the 
 preparations for her visit were soon completed, and as we 
 set out before the sun had risen on the following morning, 
 there was, as Mrs. Arnott had said, no time for her to 
 change her mind. 
 
 Florence could not but love her kind and gentle mother 
 dearly, and I did not wonder to see the tears start as she 
 bade her good-by ; but Rover was to be looked after the 
 wild- flowers with which the road was lined were to be 
 admired the rising sun was to be seen and amidst all 
 these, Florence soon forgot to be sad. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CHANGES. 
 
 I HAVE nothing strange to tell you of our journey. Ma 
 ry's father and mother were expecting us, and we arrived 
 in time to take tea with them, sending the carriage home 
 with our trunks. After tea, I walked home with Harriet 
 and Florence, while Rover gambolled along as gayly as if 
 he had had no travelling that day. 
 
 The next morning there was no difficulty in getting 
 Florence up, for she was so impatient to mount the pony, 
 that I could scarcely persuade her to wait till I was dress- 
 ed and able to go with her and witness her first lesson in 
 horsemanship. Pony was so gentle that I felt there was 
 little danger, in trusting her on him, and so delighted was 
 she with her new amusement, that she rode wherever she 
 went, and I think Harriet was only twice on horseback 
 during her visit, and one of these rides was not taken for 
 her own pleasure. They seldom went out without me, but 
 one morning when I was very much engaged, Mary came 
 over to say, that her governess having gone on a visit to a 
 sick friend, from which she would not return for two days,
 
 128 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 her mother had given her permission to invite her young 
 friends in the neighborhood to spend the next day with her, 
 and as she was going this morning to give her invitations 
 herself, she wished Florence and Harriet" to go with her. 
 Florence was quite ready to go, provided she could ride ; 
 so pony was saddled, and as I knew where they were go 
 ing, and felt there was really no danger in the way, I al 
 lowed them to go without me, sending with them, however, 
 a servant whom I knew to be careful and discreet. Gay, 
 laughing and chatting, they set out. The farthest house 
 to which Mary intended extending her invitations was only 
 three quarters of a mile distant, yet as she had several 
 calls to make, I did not expect them to return under an 
 hour and a half, or perhaps two hours. Greatly surprised 
 was I, therefore, when in about half an hour I heard tones 
 which seemed to me very like Mary's, but not gay and 
 laughing, as I had last heard them. Then came a few 
 words from Florence, and there was no mistaking the fact, 
 that her voice was decidedly sulky. Mary was already in 
 the piazza, when, laying aside my work, I approached the 
 window. Harriet was not with her, nor was Florence in 
 sight. With some alarm I inquired, " Where are Harriet 
 and Florence ?" 
 
 " Florence has rode to the stable, and Harriet has gone 
 for the doctor," Mary replied. 
 
 " The doctor !" I exclaimed, still more alarmed ; " for 
 whom? Is any thing the matter with Harriet?" 
 
 " No, but Mrs. O'Donnel's baby is ill oh ! so ill, Aunt 
 Kitty ! and Harriet has gone for the doctor, and Margaret 
 has stayed with the baby, and sent me back to beg you to 
 go there." 
 
 Confused as Mary's account was, it was clear enough 
 that aid was wanted, and without waiting to ask any fur 
 ther questions, I set out, taking with me such simple medi 
 cines as I thought might be useful, if I should arrive before 
 the doctor. As I left the parlor Mary followed me, and 
 begged very earnestly to be allowed to go with me and 
 carry some of my vials. 
 
 " But Florence, Mary, would you leave her alone ?" 
 
 " I do not believe Florence cares to have me stay with 
 her, Aunt Kitty, and I am sure I do not wish to stay," said 
 Mary, coloring.
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 129 
 
 I remembered the angry tones I had heard, and thought 
 it was perhaps wisest not to leave these children together 
 while they were so evidently out of temper, so returning 
 to the parlor, where Florence had just made her appear 
 ance, I asked her if she would like to go with me. 
 
 " No," she repMed, " I am tired." 
 
 " Then, my dear, rest yourself on the sofa a while, and 
 when you get up, look in that closet and you will find some 
 peaches. Mary is going with me, but I will send Harriet 
 to you as soon as I see her." 
 
 " I do not want Harriet or Mary either," said Florence, 
 impatiently. 
 
 I soon found that I had not left all the ill-humor behind 
 when I left Florence, for we were scarcely down the steps 
 before Mary expressed her conviction, that " there never 
 was such another selfish girl as Florence Arnott." 
 
 " Mary," said I, " I once told you that you were hasty 
 in pronouncing Florence to be very generous ; but that 
 was not so blameable as your present condemnation of 
 her, whatever she may have done. It may be unwise 
 to be ready to praise so highly on the acquaintance of a 
 few days, but it is unamiable to blame so severely for a 
 single fault." 
 
 " But, Aunt Kitty, it is not a single fault. I have been 
 thinking a long time, almost ever since you told me what 
 made a person generous, that Florence was not so gener 
 ous as I thought at first ; but I do think anybody that would 
 rather a poor little baby should die than to lose a ride for 
 themselves, is very selfish, very selfish indeed," repeated 
 Mary, with great emphasis. " And now, Aunt Kitty," she 
 continued, " I will tell you how it was, and then you will 
 see if I am not right." 
 
 " Stop, my dear Mary," said I, as she was about to com 
 mence her story, " you are just now very angry with Flor 
 ence, and would not therefore be a fair witness in the case. 
 I had rather hear from some one else how it was." 
 
 " Why, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, with a very proud 
 look, " you do not think I would tell you a story, I hope." 
 
 " No, my love, I am sure you would tell me nothing 
 which you did not believe to be true ; but anger makes 
 the words and looks, and even the actions of people, appear 
 to us very unlike what they really are. However, you
 
 130 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 have no time to tell me any thing, even* if I wished it, for 
 here we are at Mrs. O'Donnel's." 
 
 My readers may not be as unwilling as I was to hear 
 what Mary had to say, so I will tell them what I after 
 wards heard of the morning's adventures from Margaret 
 and Harriet, as soon as I have given them some account 
 of Mrs. O'Donnel and her baby. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A MOTHER AND CHILD. 
 
 THE little cabin, for it was nothing more, in which Mrs. 
 O'Donnel lived, had been put up only a few months. It 
 was built in a little wood which skirted the road between 
 my house and the village, and stood so near the road that 
 the traveller, as he passed along, could hear the baby who 
 lived there, crying, or the song with which his young mo 
 ther was hushing him to sleep. She was a very young 
 mother ; and there she lived, you might almost say, with 
 no one but her baby for Pat O'Donnel, her husband, was 
 one of the hands on board a steamboat which went from 
 
 our village to H every morning and returned in the 
 
 evening, and though he was always at home at night, he 
 was away every day except Sunday, from day-dawn till 
 dark. He had built this cabin, and brought his young wife 
 and his baby son to live there, that he might spend every 
 night with them. 
 
 I know nothing more of these people than I have now 
 told you, when the circumstances occurred which I am 
 about to relate, except that Mrs. O'Donnel worked very 
 industriously in a little garden which had been fenced in 
 for her near her cabin, and that on Sunday, the husband 
 and wife, with their bright-eyed boy, might be seen go 
 ing to church, looking clean, and healthy, and happy. 
 But Harriet had become better acquainted with the family 
 ;han I, for she loved children, and could never pass little 
 Jem this was the name of the baby without a smile or a
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 131 
 
 pleasant word, and the child soon learned to know her ; 
 and when she came near, would jump and spring in his 
 mother's arms, give her back smile for smile, and since he 
 could not talk yet, would crow to her words. The mother 
 was pleased with the notice taken of her boy, and when 
 ever we passed the house, would bring him to the low 
 fence nearest the road, and with a courtesy, and " How 
 d'ye do, ma'am ?" to me, would hold him to Harriet to 
 kiss, sometimes putting in his hand a bunch of flowers for 
 his young friend, who seldom left home to walk in that di 
 rection without taking some present for him. Even when 
 setting out with Mary to deliver her invitations, little Jem 
 had not been forgotten ; and when I saw Harriet saving 
 the largest of two peaches I had given her, and putting it 
 in a little basket which she carried in her hand, I well 
 knew that it would go no farther than to Mrs. O'Donnel's 
 cabin. Accordingly, when she came in sight of it, she 
 quickened her pace, saying to her companions, " I want to 
 stop at Mrs. O'Donnel's a minute, so I will run on ; and 
 if you do not go too fast, I will be with you again before 
 you have passed there." 
 
 Before she reached the house, she called out for little 
 Jem, and wondered that neither his laugh nor his mother's 
 pleasant voice answered her. She would have thought 
 they were not at home, but the door was open, and Mrs. 
 O'Donnel was too careful to leave it so, when she was far 
 away. Unlatching the little gate which opened on the 
 road, she crossed the yard and entered the house. There 
 sat Mrs. O'Donnel, her hands clasped in an agony of grief, 
 and tears washing her face, and falling unheeded on that 
 of her poor boy, who lay extended on her lap, no longer 
 laughing and crowing, but pale and still, with his eyes half 
 closed. 
 
 Harriet's exclamation of, "Wh$t is the matter, Mrs. 
 O'Donnel ?", roused the poor mother, who, looking up, said, 
 " Oh, Miss, and glad am I you're come, for my poor baby 
 loved you, and you're just in time to see him die." 
 
 " Oh ! I hope not, Mrs. O'Donnel," said Harriet. " He 
 will -not die. Do you think he will ?" she added, more 
 doubtingly, as again she looked in his pale face, and kneel 
 ing down by him, took the little hand which lay so feebly 
 by his side.
 
 132 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 " And indeed, Miss, I fear he will die," said the poor 
 woman. " All yesterday I saw he was not well, and 
 grieved was I to see Pat going this morning, and leaving 
 me with him all alone but Pat laughed at me for a cow 
 ard, and when I heard him laugh, I took heart and thought 
 it was all my foolishness but ah, Miss ! it isn't laughing 
 he'll do when he comes home the night;" and at. the 
 thought of her husband's sorrow, Mrs. O'Donnel sobbed 
 aloud. Soon recovering herself, she continued : " I saw 
 Pat off, and when he was out of sight I came back, and 
 looked at my baby as he lay asleep. It was daylight then, 
 and I saw he had a beautiful color. Now I know the color 
 was just the fever burning him up, but then I thought he 
 was better, and I was so glad that I couldn't help sing 
 ing, though I did it softly for fear of waking him ; and lit 
 tle was the work I did, going back again and again to the 
 bed to see my pretty baby looking so well and at last I 
 stooped down to kiss him, and whether I woke him, Miss, 
 I don't know, but all at once he opened his eyes wide and 
 stared at me, and he doubled his fists and stretched him 
 self out, and made such a noise in the throat, that it was 
 dying I thought he was just then and I screamed and 
 cried, but there was nobody to hear me, and soon he stop 
 ped making the noise and shut his eyes again, and ever 
 since he has lain still, just like this." 
 
 Any one who has seen a child in convulsions, will know 
 what had been the matter with little Jem ; but Harriet 
 knew nothing about it, and, you may suppose her dismay, 
 when, as she was looking at her little playfellow, a spasm 
 crossed his face, his head was thrown back, his limbs stif 
 fened, and that distressing noise in the throat was again 
 heard. The mother shrieked, and Harriet, rushing to the 
 door, screamed to Margaret, who, with Florence and Mary, 
 was waiting in the roa* for her, that little Jem was dying. 
 Margaret was a good nurse, and one of those useful people 
 who think more of helping those who suffer, than of mourning 
 over them. ' As soon as she entered the house, she saw 
 what was the matter, and saw, too, the very thing which 
 she most needed, a large pot of water, under which Mrs. 
 O'Donnel had made a fire before she became alarmed 
 about her child. In another minute, she had drawn a tub 
 from under a table, poured into it the hot water from the
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 133 
 
 pot, cooled it to the proper temperature, by the addition of 
 some from a pail which stood near, and before Mrs. O'Don- 
 nel at all understood her proceedings, her child was strip 
 ped and laid in a warm bath. 
 
 As 'the convulsion passed off, Margaret said, " Now, 
 Mrs. O'Donnel, your child is coming to, and you must not 
 be so frightened, for I have seen many a child have fits, 
 and be just as well as ever afterwards ; but you must be 
 very quiet, ma'am, for if he goes to sleep afterwards he 
 ought not to be woke ; and, Miss Harriet, you cannot do 
 any good crying here, but if you will get on pony and ride 
 for the doctor as fast as you can, you will be doing a 
 great deal of good, and Miss Mary had better go back and 
 tell her aunt." 
 
 In an instant Harriet was by the side of the pony, urging 
 Florence to get off, that she might mount and go for the 
 doctor. But to this arrangement Florence strongly ob 
 jected. My readers must not be too angry with her, they 
 must remember she had not seen the child, and did not 
 know how very important even a few minutes might be in 
 such a case as his. Still, it must be confessed, she thought 
 more of herself than of any one else, as she replied to 
 Harriet's entreaties, " Why cannot I go for the doctor ? 
 I can carry a message just as well as you." 
 
 " But, Florence, you do not know where the doctor 
 lives." 
 
 " Well, you can go with me and show me." 
 
 " Florence, I cannot walk as fast as the pony can go. 
 Do, Florence, come down and let me have him." 
 
 Florence did not stir, and Harriet wrung her hands with 
 impatience, as, turning to the door, she called out, " Mar 
 garet, Florence will not let me have the pony." 
 
 Margaret came out, but neither her remonstrances, nor 
 Harriet's entreaties, nor the reproaches of Mary, had any 
 effect upon Florence. Indeed, Mary's reproaches probably 
 only strengthened her resolution, as it is not by making 
 people angry that we induce them to yield their wishes to 
 ours. Some minutes were lost in this useless contest, when 
 Harriet said, " Margaret, I will not wait any longer, I will 
 walk as fast as I can, and if the doctor is only at home he 
 will soon be here." 
 
 When Mary and I arrived at Mrs. O'Donnel's, neither 
 12
 
 134 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 the doctor nor Harriet had yet made their appearance. I 
 did for the poor baby all I could venture to do without a 
 physician's advice, and then watched with much anxiety 
 for Dr. Franks. I had been there probably half an hour, 
 when Harriet came in, flushed and panting. " Where is 
 the doctor ?" was the first question. 
 
 " He will soon be here," she replied ; " I am sure he 
 will, for Mrs. Franks knew where he was, and she sent off 
 a boy on horseback for him." 
 
 Harriet looked so heated, that, fearing the effect of fur 
 ther excitement on her, I determined to return home imme 
 diately. So, giving Margaret some directions, and telling 
 Mrs. O'Donnel that I would see her again in the after 
 noon, I left them. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 WE walked home quite slowly, on Harriet's account. 
 We had been so long away that Florence would, I thought, 
 have become quite tired of loneliness and ill-humor, and 
 quite prepared to welcome us with cheerful, friendly 
 smiles ; indeed I should not have been greatly surprised to 
 meet her on the way, or at least to see her in the piazza 
 watching for us. But we reached the house entered the 
 piazza passed into the parlor, and still no Florence was 
 seen. I called her, but she did not answer, and a servant 
 told me she thought Miss Florence had gone to lie down, 
 as she had told her that she was sick, and did not want any 
 dinner. I went to her room immediately, and found her 
 asleep. She had evidently been weeping, for her face was 
 flushed, her eyelids red and swollen, and as I stood by her, 
 she sobbed heavily more than once. Harriet had stolen in 
 after me without my seeing her, and as I turned to darken 
 a window, the light from which shone directly on Florence, 
 she looked anxiously in my face, and asked in a whisper, 
 w Is she very sick, Aunt Kitty ?"
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 135 
 
 I did not like to tell Harriet that I thought Florence 
 more sulky than sick, so I only replied, " I hope not, my 
 dear. She has cried herself to sleep, and if awoke now, 
 will probably have a headache, so we will let her sleep on." 
 
 When we had dined, Mary prepared to return home. 
 Harriet had quite recovered from her fatigue, and I pro 
 posed that she should go home with Mary and spend the 
 afternoon. She hesitated at this for a little while, and then 
 said, " I had rather go to Mrs. O'Donnel's with you, Aunt 
 Kitty." 
 
 "But, Harriet, I would rather you should go to your 
 uncle's." 
 
 Seeing she still lingered by me, and looked dissatisfied, 
 I added, " I have a very good reason for my wish, Har 
 riet, which, if I should tell it to you, would, I am sure, 
 make you go cheerfully ; but I would rather you should 
 trust me, and do what I ask without hearing my reason. 
 Can you not ?" 
 
 She readily answered, " Yes," and getting her bonnet, 
 only stopped to ask that I would let her know how little 
 Jem was as soon as I came back. This I promised, and 
 she and Mary set out. 
 
 It was on account of Florence that I had sent Harriet 
 away. I had at first been interested in this little girl for 
 her mother's sake, but I had now become much attached to 
 her and deeply interested in her for her own sake. She 
 was naturally a child of quick feelings and warm affec 
 tions, and I could not see her anxiety to please me, her 
 loving remembrance of her father and mother, her constant 
 solicitude about them, and her delight at hearing of them, 
 without regarding her tenderly, and earnestly desiring to 
 see that one fault removed, which was daily acquiring 
 strength, and which would in time destroy all that was 
 pleasing or amiable in her character. For this one fault, 
 which I am sure I need not tell my readers was selfishness, 
 I found, too, more excuse in the circumstances of Florence, 
 than I could have found in those of most children. She 
 was an only child, and her fond father and mother had al 
 ways so plainly shown that they considered her the first 
 object in life, and thought that every thing should yield to 
 her wishes, that Florence is perhaps scarcely very much to 
 blame for having learned to think so too. I had long wish- 

 
 136 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 ed for an opportunity to show Florence her own selfishness 
 and its great evil, and as Margaret had, while I was at Mrs. 
 O'Donnel's, told me what she knew of the morning's ad 
 ventures, I believed that this opportunity I had now found. 
 That Mary had spoken the truth to Florence on this sub 
 ject, I did riot doubt ; but I was as sure that this truth had 
 been spoken, not in love, but in anger, and this never 
 profits any one. I did not think it would be necessary for 
 me to speak at all, for I thought Florence had now prepared 
 for hersel/ a lesson which would tell her all I wished her 
 to know, far more forcibly than any words of mine could 
 do. What this lesson was, how I induced Florence to look 
 at it, and what were its effects on her, you -shall now hear. 
 
 When Florence awoke, I was sitting by her bedside, and 
 I met her first glance with a pleasant smile. She cast a 
 wondering look around her, and again resting her eyes on 
 me, asked, " Where is Harriet ?" 
 
 " Gone home with Mary," I replied ; " and I want you 
 to make a visit, and take a drive with me, so get up, lazy 
 one, and when you have washed your face and brushed 
 your hair, come to the parlor, and you shall have some 
 dinner." 
 
 As I spoke, I playfully lifted Florence from the bed, and 
 placed her standing on the floor, and before she had time 
 to ask any farther questions, or make any objections, I was 
 gone. When she came out, I. had such a dinner prepared 
 for her, as I knew would best please her taste, and near it 
 stood a small basket filled with choice fruit. Florence 
 was hungry, and said little till she had finished her dinner. 
 She then asked where I was going. 
 
 " I am going to take a drive to a farmer's about four 
 miles ofF, who has the best cherries in the neighborhood, 
 but first, I am going to Mrs. O'Donnel's to see her sick ba 
 by, and I want you to go with me, and help me take her 
 some things which I think may be of use to him." 
 
 While speaking, I laid a small bundle on the table by 
 Florence. She looked at the bundle, then at me, and then 
 down on the floor. At last she spoke, " I do not want to 
 go to Mrs. O'Donnel's." 
 
 " Do not want to go to Mrs. O'Donnel's ! I am very 
 sorry for that, for I must take these things to the baby. 
 But why do you not wish to go ?"
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 137 
 
 " Mary called me selfish this morning, and and I do 
 not want to go there." 
 
 " Mary called you selfish ! I will not ask you why she 
 did so, because, as I would not let her tell me your quar 
 rels, I must not be partial and hear them from you ; but 
 surely to refuse to do a kind action to a sick baby, is not 
 the best way to convince her that she was unjust." I saw 
 that Florence hesitated, and pursuing my purpose, said, 
 " Come, put on your bonnet, and do not let Mary's petu 
 lance prevent your doing right, and deprive me of my 
 companion." 
 
 As she had no objection to make, Florence put on her 
 bonnet, took up the bundle, and followed me, though I could 
 see it was with inward reluctance. During our walk I 
 spoke to her cheerfully and pleasantly, leaving her but lit 
 tle time for thought. 
 
 When we came in sight of the house, she became grave 
 and silent. I, too, ceased talking. I held Florence's hand, 
 and, as we approached the door, I could feel that she drew 
 back ; but I took no notice of her efforts, and she entered 
 with me into the presence, to all appearance, of the dying. 
 Florence had never before stood by the side of one so ill ; 
 and to see the pretty, laughing baby, with whom she had 
 played so gayly but a few days since, lying so changed ; 
 to hear his deep, groaning breath ; to see the poor mother, 
 as she sat, shedding no tear, making no moan, but gazing 
 on her child with a hopeless agony which none could mis 
 take, was enough to cause her to turn pale and burst into 
 tears ; yet I thought it probable that Mary's angry speech 
 es were now remembered, and that some of the bitterness 
 of remorse was in the heart of Florence. No one moved 
 when we entered. Even Dr. Franks, who was there, re 
 mained seated, holding his watch in his hand, and occa 
 sionally making a sign to Margaret to give the child some 
 medicine which stood on a table by her. I was myself 
 overcome, for though I had expected to find the child ill, I 
 had not been prepared for such apparent hopelessness in 
 his case. Poor Florence ! Her lesson was likely to be 
 more severe than I had anticipated. 
 
 Seeing that I could do no good, feeling that I could speak 
 no comfort there, I quietly laid down what I had brought 
 on the floor beside Mrs. O'Donnel, and taking the hand of 
 
 12*
 
 138 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 the weeping Florence, passed out. Dr. Franks followed 
 me. I heard his step, and turning, when we were far 
 enough from the door not to be heard within the house, I 
 asked him whether he had any hope that the child would 
 recover. 
 
 " Only that hope," he replied, "which we feel as long 
 as there is life. He cannot long remain as he now is ; if 
 he recover at all, he will soon show signs of being better. 
 If I could have been called earlier, even half an hour 
 earlier, before the child's strength had been so far ex 
 hausted, the case would have been comparatively simple, 
 and easily relieved ; but now " and he shook his head 
 despondingly. 
 
 Florence had looked up anxiously in Dr. Franks' face 
 while he was speaking. She now dropped her head, 
 covered her face with her hands, and sobbed loudly and 
 violently. This caused the doctor to look at her, and 
 that look probably reminded him of Harriet, for he said, 
 " By the by, I never knew Harriet so thoughtless as in 
 this business. Why, when she found I was not at home, 
 did she not ride on for me herself, instead of waiting for a 
 boy to catch and saddle another horse, a business of half 
 an hour at least, all which time I was riding away from 
 here, so that it made a difference of fully an hour in the 
 time of my arriving. That hour would, in all probability, 
 have saved the child." . 
 
 Any excuse for Harriet would have seemed an accusation 
 to poor Florence's excited mind, and I was silent, but as the 
 doctor said, " That hour would in all probability have 
 saved the child," her cries became so wild and distressing, 
 that I moved with her farther from the house, while the 
 doctor returned to his post. 
 
 " What is the matter, Florence ?" said I ; " why are 
 you so much distressed ? Is it because you fear the baby 
 will die ?" 
 
 " No, no, it's because I've killed him oh ! I've killed 
 him," she repeated, with almost frantic vehemence ; "the 
 doctor says so ; the doctor says if Harriet had rode he 
 would have got well, and I would not let Harriet ride." 
 
 I never felt my own helplessness, my own littleness, and 
 God's supreme power, so much as at this moment. Here 
 was the very lesson which I had wished to teach Florence, 

 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 139 
 
 which I had brought her there to learn, the great evil of 
 her selfishness. I had wished her to see that pale, suffer 
 ing baby to feel grieved to be angry with herself, that 
 for a trifling amusement she had been willing to prolong 
 those sufferings, to lengthen out his mother's sorrow, 
 perhaps, to make the lesson more impressive, I would have 
 been willing that Florence should feel for some minutes an 
 apprehension that the disease would terminate fatally. 
 But here was no vain apprehension ; the child was, to all 
 appearance, dying ; his physician believed that he would 
 die, and I felt that, if he did, Florence would always suf 
 fer from the conviction that she had caused his death. 
 As I heard her frantic cries, and saw her agitated frame, 
 I trembled for the consequences. I stood awed before that 
 Almighty Being who was teaching me as well as her, the 
 great sin of selfishness, the suffering which follows all 
 sin, was teaching us that the only path of safety is that 
 narrow path of right-doing which He has marked out for 
 us, and that the slightest wandering from this path might 
 lead to woes of which we had not even dreamed. These 
 are solemn lessons, which I hope my little readers will 
 learn from the example of others, that they may never, 
 like Florence, be taught them in their own persons. 
 
 In my fears for Florence I could find no comfort, but in 
 the remembrance that God, her great Teacher, was also 
 her loving Father. While I was standing beside her, un 
 able to speak, striving, with mute caresses, to sooth her 
 agony, with a sudden movement she looked up to me, ex 
 claiming, " Oh ! beg the doctor to make him well." 
 
 " The doctor, my dear Florence, cannot make him 
 well ; God only can do that." 
 
 "Well, beg God, then." 
 
 " I will, dear Florence, and so may you, for He is as 
 near to you as to me, and He hears the simplest prayer of 
 the simplest child." 
 
 In an instant she was on her knees beside me, exclaim, 
 ing, in the most imploring tones, " Oh, God ! please to 
 make the baby well, oh ! please to make him well." 
 
 Florence had often said her prayers, but this was proba 
 bly the first time she had ever prayed from the heart. I 
 stooped down to her, and said " And please take this 
 wicked selfishness from the heart of Florence, that she
 
 140 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 may not do such great wrong again, and bring such 
 sorrow on herself and others." She repeated my words 
 slowly and solemnly, adding, " and oh ! please make the 
 baby well," and concluding her prayer with the sacred 
 form to which she had been accustomed, " For Christ's 
 sake, Amen," she rose up comparatively calm. Hers 
 had been a prayer of such simple faith as none but a 
 simple-hearted child, and those who, in the words of our 
 Saviour, become as little children, can offer, and such 
 prayer always brings consolation. 
 
 "Now, Aunt Kitty, let us go back to the house:" 
 seeing I hesitated, Florence added, " you need not be afraid 
 that I will make any noise ; I will be veiy still. I only 
 want to go where I can see him." 
 
 The fear that Florence would make a noise had not 
 been the cause of my hesitation. It was on her own ac 
 count. I had wished Florence, as I have already said, 
 to feel the evil of her selfishness ; I did not wish her to 
 forget the pain she had suffered and was suffering ; I 
 would not have driven away, if I could, the serious 
 thoughts which were now in her mind ; but her agitation 
 had been so great as to make me very anxious, and I 
 hesitated to take her back where she might be yet further 
 excited. She appeared, however, so much in earnest in 
 her wish, that, after a little consideration, I thought it 
 wisest to indulge her, and we returned to the house. Flor 
 ence seated herself on a low stool by Margaret, on whose 
 lap the baby now lay, and watched him with scarcely less 
 constancy than his mother. Her lips frequently moved, 
 and I had no doubt that she was again asking God to 
 make him well. 
 
 I will not weary you by telling you how long we 
 watched there, or through what changes the little sufferer 
 passed. The sun was not yet set, when his symptoms 
 were so materially amended that the doctor said to Mrs. 
 O'Donnel, " Now, my good woman, be comforted ; your 
 child is better, and will, I hope, with care, soon be well." 
 
 The poor mother had uttered no sound for many hours, 
 but now her long-smothered feelings burst out. With a 
 wild cry she started up, and, holding out her arms, would 
 have caught her child to her bosom ; but the doctor, push 
 ing her back into her seat, whispered, " Hush/ hush he 

 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 141 
 
 is sensible now, and you may frighten him into another 
 
 She hushed her cry in a moment, and remained quiet in 
 her chair ; but she burst into tears and wept piteously. 
 As soon as she recovered her voice, she exclaimed, " God 
 bless you, sir; God bless you all, for it's good you've 
 been to me, watching by the poor, lone woman's child, as 
 if he had been the rich man's son. And he will be bet 
 ter, you say, before Pat comes. Oh ! glad am I, poor fel 
 low, that he didn't, see him at the worst." 
 
 When I could look around for Florence, she had left the 
 cabin. I went out and saw her standing by the carriage, 
 which had been some time waiting for us. She was 
 speaking eagerly to Henry, and as she turned to meet me, 
 I saw that she looked much excited, though very happy. 
 I found, too, that her head and hands were feverish to the 
 touch, and I became very anxious to get her quietly home. 
 When I proposed going, however, Florence replied, " Not 
 yet," and turned towards the house. 
 
 I put my arm around her, and drawing her to me, said 
 very seriously, " Florence, you asked God a little while 
 ago to take away all selfishness from your heart. Do you 
 remember it ?" 
 
 " Yes," she immediately replied, " and I hope he will, 
 now that He has made the baby well." 
 
 " I am sure He will, Florence, if you only show that 
 you were sincere in asking it, by watching your own feel 
 ings, and resisting your selfish inclinations." 
 
 " Well, so I will," said Florence. 
 
 " Then, my love, you will do now as I wish you. By 
 remaining longer here you may make yourself sick from 
 fatigue and excitement, and so, for the gratification of your 
 own inclinations, give great pain to me and to all who love 
 you. This would be selfish, would it not ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Florence, " so it would, though I did not know 
 it ;" and she entered the carriage without further hesitation. 
 
 This was probably the first time that Florence had ever 
 voluntarily yielded her own wishes to those of another 
 the first generous act she had ever performed. It may 
 seem to my readers a very little thing, but I felt that Flor 
 ence had resisted herself, had conquered herself, and this 
 is never a little thing.
 
 142 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 When we got home I sent the carriage on for Harriet, 
 and giving Florence her tea without any delay, went 
 with her, early as it was, to her room, promising, if she 
 went to bed at once, to sit with her till she slept. She 
 had been accustomed by her mother to say her prayers 
 aloud, and I was glad to hear, as I listened to her this 
 evening, that she did not forget to thank God for making 
 little Jem well. She was very much disposed to talk when 
 she had lain down ; but as I was desirous to keep her as 
 quiet as possible, I told her that in the morning I would 
 hear all she had to say, and that now I would tell her a 
 story of her mother and myself when we were children. 
 A story was what of all things Florence most liked to 
 hear, so she was very attentive to me, and begged, when I 
 had ended one, that I would tell her another. I took care 
 that the second should not be very interesting, and before 
 it was finished, Florence was in a sleep which, though at 
 first disturbed and nervous, soon became quiet, and from 
 which she did not awake till the sun was shining brightly 
 on another day. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A GOOD BEGINNING. 
 
 "WELL, Harriet," said Dr. Franks, as he came into our 
 breakfast room before we had risen from table, " I was half 
 angry with you yesterday, when I thought you had ridden 
 to my house and then turned back and sent a boy for me, 
 instead of following me yourself. But my wife saved you 
 a scolding by telling me you walked there. And now, 
 Miss Simple, pray what was that for ? Of what use is 
 your pony if he cannot bring you for a doctor when a child 
 is in convulsions ?" 
 
 Harriet colored and looked confused, but Florence colored 
 still more deeply. I. saw that the doctor expected an an 
 swer, and both the children looked- at me to explain, but I 
 would not interfere. The doctor seemed annoyed at our 
 silence, and catching hold of Mary Mackay, who was just 
 entering the parlor, he drew her forward, saying, "Why,
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 143 
 
 Mary Wild," a name he had long given her, "could not 
 have done a more thoughtless thing." 
 
 Low and hesitatingly, Florence spoke, " It was not Har 
 riet's fault." 
 
 " It was not Harriet's fault !" the doctor impatiently re- 
 peated ; " whose fault was it then, pray ?" 
 
 "It was mine," the first difficulty conquered, Florence 
 spoke more boldly " It was mine. I was riding the pony, 
 and would not let her have him." 
 
 I knew Dr. Franks well, and I saw that he was about to 
 reply to this with a severity which, however Florence might 
 have deserved the day before, would then have been cruel ; 
 so before he could speak, I drew her to me, and said, " Not 
 a word of blame, doctor, for Florence has already said 
 harder things to herself than you can say to her. Besides, 
 you would have known nothing of it but for her, and she 
 must not suffer for her truth telling." 
 
 I was pleased with this little incident, for though Flor 
 ence had only done justice to Harriet, selfishness often 
 makes us unjust as well as ungenerous ; and I knew to tell 
 the truth as fully as she had done, must have given her 
 great pain. I was glad, too, to find that Harriet and Mary 
 both seemed to feel this, and were very cordial and pleasant 
 in their manner to her afterwards. 
 
 The next afternoon we went to the farm where we were 
 to find the best cherries in the neighborhood ; and there 
 Florence's new principle of action displayed itself frequent 
 ly. She was evidently on the watch for opportunities to be 
 generous. The best place under the trees, the finest cher 
 ries, for which she would once have striven, she now pressed 
 upon Harriet and Mary; and whenever she had thus con 
 quered her former habits, she would turn her eyes to me 
 with a timid appeal -for my approval. But the act on which 
 she evidently most valued herself, was, asking to return in 
 the carriage, and so giving up the pony to Harriet, when 
 we were going home. 
 
 It was but a few days after this that Mr. and Mrs. Ar- 
 nott came for Florence, on their way home from the Vir 
 ginia Springs. During these few days, she continued to 
 manifest the same earnest desire to correct her faults. I 
 told her father arid mother of the interesting scenes through 
 which she had passed, and of what seemed to be their happy
 
 144 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 result. Mrs. Arnott shed tears, and Mr. Arnott shook my 
 hand repeatedly, declaring that I had done more for their 
 happiness than I could conceive, if I had brought Florence 
 to see and endeavor to correct this one great fault. 
 
 The evening before we parted, I had a conversation with 
 Florence which interested me very much. We were walk 
 ing, and I had purposely taken the path which led by Mrs. 
 O'Donnel's cabin. When we came in sight of it, Mrs. 
 O'Donnel was standing at the door with little Jem, now 
 quite well, in her arms. We spoke to her as we passed, 
 and then Florence said, " I shall always love little Jem, 
 Aunt Kitty." 
 
 " Why, Florence ?" 
 
 " Because, if it had not been for him I should not have 
 found out what a selfish child I was, or have learned to be 
 generous." 
 
 " And do you think you have learned to be generous, 
 Florence ?" 
 
 She colored and seemed confused for a moment, then 
 looking up in my face said, with great simplicity, " I hope 
 so. Do you not think I have ?" 
 
 " I think you are learning, and learning very fast. It 
 was fortunate, dear Florence, that you discovered the evil 
 of your selfish habits while you were so young ; but the 
 habits even of ten years are not to be broken in a day. 
 You will often find it difficult to resist them. If you will 
 write to me when you go away, and tell me all the diffi 
 culties and trials you meet in your efforts to conquer them, 
 I may sometimes be able to help you. Will you do this ? 
 Will you write to me ?" 
 
 " Write to you ! oh ! I shall like it, at least I shall like 
 to get your letters, and read mamma just as much as I 
 choose of them." 
 
 " But you must remember, Florence, that my object in 
 our correspondence will be to give you my aid in learning 
 to be generous. That I may be able to do this, you must 
 be very honest with me, and tell me whenever you have 
 done, or even been tempted to do a selfish thing." 
 
 " May I not tell you, too, when I have been generous ?" 
 
 " Certainly, my dear ; tell me all you wish to tell me of 
 yourself, I shall be glad to hear it all ; but I hope you will 
 soon feel that you have a great deal more to tell me of your
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 145 
 
 selfishness, than of your generosity." Florence looked at 
 me in speechless surprise. " Because, Florence, I hope 
 you will soon become really generous, generous at heart, 
 and then those things which, now that you are only trying 
 to be generous, it is hard for you to do, which you notice 
 because they are done with a great effort, will be so easy 
 and so common that you will forget to tell me about them 
 that you will not even notice them yourself." 
 
 " But how, when I get to be so generous, can I have any 
 selfishness to write you about?" 
 
 " Ah, Florence ! we are never quite free from selfish- 
 ness, any of us, and the more generous we become, the 
 more plainly do we see selfishness in acts and feelings 
 which seemed to us quite free from it once. Do you not 
 feel this yourself? Do not things seem selfish to you 
 now, which only a week ago you did not think so at all ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Florence, in a low voice, and then walked 
 thoughtfully and silently by my side. 
 
 The next morning Florence returned home, and I did 
 not see her again for nearly eighteen months. But I heard 
 from her often, for our correspondence commenced very 
 soon. Her first letters were filled with her own generous acts, 
 how she had risen early when she was very sleepy, that 
 she might not keep nurse waiting how she had sat quite 
 still almost all day, when she had wanted to run about very 
 much, because mamma was not well, and would have been 
 disturbed by noise how she had given her cousin Mary 
 her very prettiest book, because she said she liked it. But 
 it was not long before Florence began to write of her grief 
 for selfish feelings, which, to use her own language, " if 
 she tried ever so hard to get rid of them, would come back." 
 Once or twice a letter came from her full of the bitterest 
 shame and self-reproach for the selfishness of some action, 
 which, a little while before, Florence would not have felt 
 to be in the least degree wrong. I rejoiced at all this, for 
 I saw it was as I hoped ; Florence was becoming generous 
 at heart selfishness was becoming a hateful thing to her, 
 and a strange thing, which like other strange things, could 
 not make its appearance without being noticed. I would 
 copy some of these letters for you, but I have other things 
 to tell you of Florence, which I think will interest you 
 more than her letters. 
 
 13
 
 146 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A NEW CREATURE. 
 
 ALMOST eighteen months after Florence had left us, 
 came that bright and beautiful winter's morning which I 
 described to you at the commencement of this book. You 
 may remember that on that morning I accompanied Harriet 
 and Mary to Mr. Dickinson's to hear a play, which was to 
 form part of their Christmas entertainments, and that on 
 returning home, I found Mr. Arnott's carriage waiting for 
 me. The driver brought a letter from Florence, begging 
 me to come as soon as possible to her sick and sorrowing 
 mother. The letter was short, and did not tell me what 
 was the cause of Mrs. Arnott's distress. I immediately 
 packed a trunk, and sending Harriet home with Mary, pre 
 pared for my journey. It was one o'clock, however, be 
 fore, with my utmost haste, I could set out, and the roads 
 were so filled up with the snow of the previous night, that 
 we travelled slowly, and I had gone little more than half 
 way when the short winter's day was over. I therefore 
 stopped all night at the same little inn where I had dined 
 when going to Mr. Arnott's with Harriet and Mary. The 
 next morning I was again on the road so early that I ar 
 rived at Mr. Arnott's before breakfast, indeed, before any 
 of the family, except Florence, was up. She did not ex 
 pect me so early, and I entered the house so quietly, that I 
 stood in the parlor with her before she knew that I had ar 
 rived. 
 
 No one who had seen the face of Florence, as her eye 
 rested on me, could have doubted her delight at seeing me ; 
 yet, surprised and delighted as she was, she made no ex 
 clamation, but coming close to me, put her arms around 
 me, and kissing me repeatedly, said, in a very low voice, 
 almost a whisper, "How kind you were, Aunt Kitty, to 
 come so quickly ! We did not think you could be here be 
 fore this evening." 
 
 In the same low tone I answered, " Your letter made me
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 147 
 
 too anxious to admit of any unnecessary delay. But how 
 is your mother now ?" 
 
 " She will be better, I am sure, when she sees you, for I 
 think it is agitation which has made mamma ill. She slept 
 but little last night, and is asleep now, which makes me try 
 to keep every thing quiet." 
 
 While Florence was speaking, she was helping me to 
 take off my cloak and bonnet. Then drawing a large 
 rocking-chair before the fire, she seated me in it, and kneel 
 ing down by me, loosened the lacings of the moccasins 
 which I had worn over my shoes in travelling, and took 
 them off. Before she rose, she rested her head for a mo 
 ment affectionately on my shoulder, and said, " Aunt Kitty, 
 I am very, very glad to see you again." 
 
 Florence was greatly changed in appearance as well as 
 in manners, since we parted. She had left me, a child, 
 looking even younger than Harriet, though, in reality, two 
 years older ; but a year and a half had passed, and she 
 had grown so rapidly, that, though not yet thirteen, she 
 might easily have passed for fourteen or fifteen. Her face, 
 too, had changed. Florence had always been spoken of 
 as a pretty child. I suppose she was so, for she had a fair, 
 smooth skin, very dark, glossy, and curling hair, and fine 
 eyes ; yet her face never particularly pleased me, and 
 even those who talked of her beauty, did not seem to care 
 much about looking at her. But now there was a sweet 
 thoughtfulness and peacefulness in her countenance, which 
 made me turn my eyes again and again on her with in 
 creasing love. Not that I loved her for being beautiful, 
 but for the serious and gentle spirit, which I was sure had 
 given the expression, of which I have spoken, to her coun 
 tenance, which would have given the same expression to 
 the plainest features, and which I would advise all my little 
 readers to cultivate, if they are desirous of beauty that 
 beauty which all admire most, and which nothing, not even 
 old age or disease, can destroy. 
 
 But these changes in appearance were by no means the 
 most important which I already saw in Florence. In every 
 word and action I saw that she was thinking more of others 
 than of herself. I have told you how quietly she received 
 me, never forgetting, in her surprise at my unexpected ap 
 pearance, that a loud exclamation from her might awaken
 
 148 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 and agitate her mother, while for my comfort she seemed 
 equally considerate. My readers will, perhaps, think that 
 these things were little worthy of notice, and gave slight proof 
 of any great change of character in Florence slight assur 
 ance that she had conquered her selfishness. But in this 
 they are mistaken. It is precisely in these little things 
 which occur daily, hourly, in the life of each of us, that a 
 generous nature shows itself most truly. A very selfish 
 person may, on some rare occasion, make a great display 
 of generosity, may even be excited into doing a really 
 generous action, but it is only the generous in heart who 
 can be generous daily, hourly, in little as in great things, 
 without excitement and without effort. Some of my young 
 friends may have been accustomed to think themselves very 
 generous, yet to keep their generosity, as fine ladies keep 
 their diamonds, only to be exhibited on great occasions. 
 Let me assure them that if it is not shown, too, in every 
 day life in thoughtfulness of the feelings of others, readi 
 ness to yield their own gratifications for the advantage of 
 others it is no true diamond of generosity, but only some 
 worthless imitation. Others, perhaps, have wished that 
 they had opportunities of showing how generous they are. 
 Let them now learn that they have such opportunities every 
 day every hour. Whenever your parents call on you to 
 do what is not agreeable to your inclinations, and you obey 
 them cheerfully, pleasantly, instead of showing by your 
 ill-humor that you only do not disobey because you dare 
 not, you are sacrificing your own inclinations to promote 
 their pleasure, and in so doing you are generous. When 
 ever you give up the plays you like best, the walks you 
 most admire, and choose those which you know will give 
 the greatest pleasure to your companions, you are gener 
 ous. You will now be able to judge for yourselves of the 
 alteration in Florence's character, from her conduct under 
 the circumstances I am about to relate to you, and I need not, 
 therefore, trouble you again with such long explanations. 
 
 Soon after my arrival, Florence left the parlor, saying 
 she would go to the kitchen and tell them to bring up our 
 breakfast, as she did not like to ring the bell, which was 
 very loud. She returned in a few minutes, followed by a 
 servant with the breakfast tray. As we seated ourselves 
 at table, I inquired for Mr. Arnott.
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 149 
 
 " He is asleep still," said Florence. " He told me last 
 night to call him before breakfast, so I went to his room 
 just now to do it ; but I knew he had been up a great deal 
 with mamma last night, and he seemed to sleep so sweetly, 
 that I just said, ' Papa,' very softly, and as he did not stir 
 for that, I came out as quietly as I could." 
 
 " So if I had not been here you would have breakfasted 
 alone." 
 
 "No I should have waited for papa it is so much 
 pleasanter to breakfast with him." 
 
 An early ride is a great quickener of the appetite. I 
 was consequently somewhat longer than usual at the break 
 fast table, and before I had risen, Mr. Arnott appeared. 
 After welcoming me very cordially, he kissed Florence, 
 saying, however, as he did so, " You deserve to lose your 
 kiss for not calling me this morning. You should never 
 break a promise, Florence, however trifling it may seem 
 to you." 
 
 " I kept my promise, papa, and called you. Indeed I 
 did," she added, as Mr. Arnott shook his head, " though I 
 acknowledge I did it very softly." 
 
 " Ah, Florence ! we are told of people who, only seem 
 ing to keep their promises, are said ' to keep the word of 
 promise to the ear;' but you did not even keep yours to 
 the ear, at least not to my ear, for I heard nothing of your 
 call." 
 
 " But you believe I did call you, papa," said Florence, 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Certainly, my daughter, I believe what you tell me, 
 but I would have you remember that promises should be 
 kept in the sense in which they are made, and that, though 
 it should be at some inconvenience to ourselves." 
 
 " I will remember it, papa, but it was your inconveni 
 ence I was thinking of, when I did not awake you," said 
 FJorence, smiling. 
 
 " I do not doubt that," said her father. 
 
 While Mr. Arnott and I were conversing, Florence was 
 called out of the parlor, and as soon as the door closed on 
 her, he interrupted some observation he was making on 
 the state of the roads, to say, " I am truly obliged to you 
 for coming so quickly, for it is necessary that I should 
 leave home immediately on very important business, which 
 
 13*
 
 150 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 I will more fully explain to you before I go ; yet I have 
 not been willing even to announce my intention of going, 
 till my poor wife could have the support of your pres 
 ence." 
 
 When Florence returned, Mr. Arnott asked, " Where is 
 Rover, that he does not come to share my breakfast this 
 morning ?" 
 
 " Why, is my old friend Rover still alive ?" said I ; " I 
 wonder he has not been here to welcome me." 
 
 " He would have been, I dare say, Aunt Kitty, for Ro 
 ver never forgets his friends, but he is three miles away 
 from here now," and in spite of Florence's efforts to speak 
 carelessly, her voice trembled. 
 
 " Three miles away from here ! What do you mean, 
 Florence ?" said Mr. Arnott. 
 
 " Just what I said, papa. Edward Morton lives three 
 miles away, does he not ? Rover belongs to him now." 
 
 Florence spoke very fast, and turned her face away 
 from her father, so that he did not see, as I did, that her lip 
 was quivering, and her eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " Why, Florence, I am surprised at you. I would not 
 have believed it possible that you could part with Rover to 
 any one. I thought you loved him almost as well as he 
 loved you." 
 
 Mr. Arnott spoke almost angrily at this proof, as he 
 thought it, of want of kindness in his daughter for her old 
 playfellow. Florence, unable longer to control herself, 
 burst into tears, and sobbing, said, " So I do, papa, love 
 Rover just as well as he loves me, and yet I do not feel 
 sorry he is gone, for nurse said he kept mamma awake at 
 night barking under her window ; and you know we could 
 not keep him out of her room in the day, and when she 
 was nervous and in pain, I saw it worried her to have him 
 there." 
 
 Mr. Arnott's eyes glistened as he drew his daughter tg 
 him, and kissed and soothed her. I remembered the scene 
 with Rover and the ball during my last visit to Mrs. Ar 
 nott, and, I dare say, my readers will remember it too. 
 After a while Mr. Arnott said, " Well, Florence, it was 
 very right in you to think of your mother's comfort, and I 
 suppose I must reconcile myself to parting with Rover for 
 a time but only for a time, Florence ; when your mother
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 151 
 
 gets well, Edward, I doubt not, will give him back to 
 you." 
 
 " Perhaps he would, papa, but " Florence hesitated, 
 looked in her father's face, colored, and looked down again. 
 
 " But what, Florence ? Surely you would like to have 
 Rover back." 
 
 " To be sure I would, papa, but I thought a great deal 
 about it before I gave Rover away, and I chose Edward 
 Morton to give him to, because I knew he would love Ro 
 ver and take good care of him ; and do you think, papa, it 
 would be right, after Edward gets to love him almost as 
 well as I do, to ask him to give him up ?" 
 
 " No, my daughter, it would not be right. You have 
 thought very justly." 
 
 I could not help adding, " And very generously too." 
 
 Florence colored with pleasure at our approbation ; but 
 Mrs. Arnott's bell rang, and she left us at once to inform 
 her mother of my arrival. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 MATTERS of business are never, I think, very interesting 
 to young persons. I will not, therefore, attempt to give you 
 a very particular account of the circumstances from which 
 Mr. Arnott's present perplexities and his wife's sorrowful 
 anticipations arose. All that is necessary for you to know, 
 is soon told. 
 
 Mr. Arnott had some years before placed in the hands 
 of a merchant, who was an old and valued friend, a large 
 sum of money to be employed for him so large a sum 
 that, if lost, he would be no longer a wealthy man. His 
 pleasant home must then be given up, and his wife and 
 daughter be deprived of many of those comforts to which 
 they had been accustomed, and which delicate health made 
 almost necessary to Mrs. Arnott's life. This merchant, 
 who had resided in Montreal, had lately died very sudden-
 
 152 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 ly. Not long before his death, some changes had taken 
 place in his business which made new arrangements ne 
 cessary to secure Mr. Arnott from loss. He had urged Mr. 
 Arnott's coming to Montreal, as an interview between them 
 was very desirable before the completion of these arrange- 
 ments. But Mr. Arnott had very imprudently delayed go 
 ing, till the death of his friend had made the evil past reme 
 dy. The letter which announced his death, mentioned 
 also, that he had left no will at least none had yet been 
 found and that his nephew would therefore inherit his 
 property. Mr. Arnott knew this nephew, and thought him 
 to be a very avaricious, and not very honorable man, and 
 was sure that he would take every advantage of what he 
 now felt to be his own culpable negligence. You will 
 easily see how important it was, under such circumstances, 
 that Mr. Arnott should go as soon as possible, and examine 
 for himself, whether there yet remained any means of 
 making good his claims. 
 
 When he spoke of his intended departure, Mrs. Arnott 
 turned pale, and I saw that she was much agitated, but she 
 tried both to look and to speak cheerfully. Florence, to 
 whom it was quite a new thought, could not so command 
 herself. She looked from her father to her mother, said in 
 an accent of the utmost surprise, " Go away, papa ?" and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 Mr. Arnott rose, and with an agitated countenance left 
 the room. Mrs. Arnott knew that her husband had much 
 at present to disturb him, much which would make any 
 unhappiness in her or Florence peculiarly painful to him. 
 He was parting from them for a long and dangerous win 
 ter's journey he left her in feeble health knew not how 
 long he might be detained from home, or whether he should 
 ever return to this place as to a home. As soon as he went 
 out, she turned to Florence, and while her own voice trem 
 bled with emotion, said, " My daughter, we must not let 
 our regret make us selfish. Remember, your father is the 
 greatest sufferer. He must not only endure the pain of 
 parting, but he goes to meet great difficulty and' perplexity 
 of mind, and perhaps much hardship. Let us do our best 
 not to add to his distress by ours. To leave us cheerful 
 and well, will do much to keep him so." Florence tried 
 to subdue her sobs, but for some time very unsuccessfully.
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 153 
 
 " Go to your own room, my love," said the tender mother, 
 as she drew Florence to her and kissed her cheek, " go to 
 your own room, and come back to us when you can come 
 with a happy face. It is not an easy effort, Florence, but 
 you can make it, I am sure, for your father's sake." 
 
 Florence went to her room, and when, in about an hour, 
 she returned to us, it was with a cheerful face, and all her 
 usual animation of manner; and though I often saw the 
 tears rush to her eyes when her father's absence was 
 named, I never again saw them fall. Even when he went, 
 in their parting interview, she tried to look and speak 
 cheerfully ; and, though some tears would not be restrain 
 ed, it was not till he was out of sight and hearing, that she 
 gave full vent to her sorrow. 
 
 Mr. Arnott left us early in January. The weather, 
 during the whole of this month, was very cold and stormy, 
 and the bleak, cheerless days seemed drearier than ever 
 after his departure. Mrs. Arnott's health, too, continued 
 delicate, and yet I felt that she really little needed me, for 
 she could not have a more careful nurse, a more tender 
 comforter, than she found in the young Florence. 
 
 The last week in January brought letters from Mr. Ar 
 nott. He had just arrived in Montreal when he wrote. 
 Of course he could say nothing of business, but he was safe 
 and well, and Mrs. Arnott felt that her worst apprehen 
 sions were relieved. She had tried to be cheerful before, 
 she was now cheerful without trying. 
 
 February opened with mild, delightful weather. Flor 
 ence went out one morning for a walk, but she soon came 
 back with a bounding step, a bright color, and a coun 
 tenance animated, and joyous. " Oh, mamma !" she ex 
 claimed, "it is a most delightful day, just such a day as 
 you used to enjoy so much at the South. I almost thought 
 I could smell the jessamine and orange flowers." 
 
 " Why, Florence," said Mrs. Arnott, " you almost 
 tempt me to go out too," and she looked wistfully from the 
 windows. 
 
 " And why not, dear mamma, why should you not go 
 too ? It could not hurt you do you think it could ? to 
 take a drive in this bright, sunshiny day. I dare say, 
 Aunt Kitty would enjoy it, too," turning to me. 
 
 Mrs. Arnott smiled ; " Not such a drive as I should have
 
 154 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 strength for, Florence. I could not go more than a mile 
 or two, and that must be in the close carriage. No, no, it 
 would be a very dull drive for both of you. 
 
 " Dull, mamma, a dull drive with you, the first time you 
 were able to go out after being so long sick ? I am sure 
 Aunt Kitty does not think so do you, Aunt Kitty ?" 
 
 " No, my dear ; and, I think, if you will order the car 
 riage, that your mother will be persuaded to try it." 
 
 Florence was off like an arrow. Every thing was so 
 soon prepared for our excursion, that Mrs. Arnott had no 
 time to change her mind. Our drive was a very quiet one, 
 yet Mrs. Arnott enjoyed keenly the change, the motion, 
 and the little air which she ventured to admit. To see her 
 enjoyment was very pleasant to me, and put Florence into 
 the gayest spirits. We went about two miles, and were 
 again approaching home, when we saw a handsome open 
 sleigh coming towards us, driven by a gentleman, and al 
 most filled with young people of Florence's age. The bells 
 drew Mrs. Arnott's attention. 
 
 " Who are those, Florence ? Can you see at this distance ?" 
 
 " It looks like Mr. Morton's sleigh, mamma," said 
 Florence, coloring. " But I did not think they would come 
 this way," she added. 
 
 " Come this way ! to go where, my child ? Do you 
 know where they are going, Florence ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, they are going at least they were go 
 ing to M., to see some animals that were to be exhibited 
 there to-day." 
 
 " And which you have talked so much of, and wished so 
 much to see. I think it was scarcely kind in Clara and 
 Edward not to ask you to go with them." 
 
 " Oh, mamma! they did ask me." 
 
 " And why did you not go, Florence ?" 
 
 " I meant to go, mamma that is, I meant to ask you 
 this morning if I might go, but I thought that is when 
 you talked of coming, I liked so much better to come with 
 you that I gave it up." 
 
 " That is," said Mrs. Arnott, smiling, " you thought I 
 would enjoy my drive more if you were with me, and you 
 thought very truly, but you should not have broken your 
 promise, Florence, without some apology, even for such a 
 reason."
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 155 
 
 " It was not a positive promise, mamma, and you know 
 it would not take them out of their way at all to stop for 
 me, and I did leave a note for Clara, to tell her why I did 
 not go. But what can bring them this way, I wonder ?" 
 
 The sleigh was now quite near, and the gentleman dri 
 ver, who proved to be Mr. Morton himself, the father of 
 Edward and Clara, making a sign to our coachman to stop, 
 drew up alongside of our carriage. Giving the reins to 
 Edward, Mr. Morton sprang out, and opening the door of 
 the carriage, shook his finger playfully at Florence, say 
 ing, " So, young lady, this is your good manners, is it ? 
 to tell not only young ladies and gentlemen, but an old 
 man like me, that you like your mother's company better 
 than ours, with all the lions, and elephants, and giraffes to 
 boot. But we have caught you at last ; I may take her, 
 may I not, Mrs. Arnott ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Mrs. Arnott, smiling at his playfulness. 
 
 " How kind it was'of you, Mr. Morton, to come so much 
 out of your way for me !" 
 
 " Kind, was it ? I understand your wheedling ways ; 
 but come along, Miss Florence, you are my prisoner now," 
 and snatching up the laughing Florence, he bore her in 
 triumph to the sleigh. After seating her there, and seeing 
 that she was carefully wrapped up, he turned back to the 
 carriage with more grave inquiries after Mrs. Arnott's 
 health, and assurances that he would take good care of 
 Florence. 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you for coming for her," 
 said Mrs. Arnott, " for this exhibition is one which she has 
 long wished to see, and I should have been grieved had she 
 lost it." 
 
 " As to my coming for her, I could not well help my 
 self," said the good-humored Mr. Morton, with a laugh. 
 Then turning to me, he added, "Our friend Florence 
 never thinks of herself, so we feel obliged to think a great 
 deal of her, and the grave looks and grumbling tones with 
 which the announcement that she would not go with us 
 was received, showed me that the only chance I had of 
 making our little party a party of pleasure, was to over 
 take and capture her. You were easily tracked by your 
 wheels, for nobody else seems willing to lose the little 
 sleighing which this fine weather will probably leave us ;
 
 156 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 but, fine as it is, I am keeping you out too long in it," see 
 ing Mrs. Arnott draw her cloak more closely around her, 
 " so good-by." 
 
 Hastily mounting his sleigh, he drove rapidly off, many 
 a hearty laugh and gay voice mingling their music with 
 the merry bells. 
 
 Another letter from Mr. Arnott came about this time, 
 written cheerfully, hopefully, though he had not yet made 
 even an effort to accomplish the objects of his journey. 
 This delay was occasioned by the absence of a lawyer, 
 who had always been employed by his deceased friend, 
 Mr. Atwater, and from whom Mr. Arnott hoped to receive 
 important information and advice. He had been absent 
 when Mr. Atwater died, and no one knew enough of his 
 movements to be quite certain when he would return, yet 
 Mr. Arnott determined to wait his arrival as patiently as' 
 he could, and to do nothing till he saw him. He would 
 probably be detained but a short time after seeing him. 
 
 From the day this letter arrived, Florence began to pre 
 pare for her father's return, and to cast many an eager 
 glance up the road with the hope of seeing him. But even 
 her father's return was not the most interesting subject of 
 thought to Florence just now. She knew the apprehen 
 sions of her parents, the change of circumstances which 
 possibly awaited them. For herself, this change of cir 
 cumstances was not at all dreaded ; for, though Florence 
 loved her home, and would be sorry to leave it, she thought 
 it would be almost as pleasant to live in a beautiful little 
 cottage, covered over with roses and woodbine, with a 
 pretty flower-garden before the door ; and to raise chick 
 ens, and make butter and cheese for the market, seemed 
 to her delightful employments. Pleasant as this picture 
 was, and it was the only one which poverty presented to 
 her, Florence saw that her father and mother did not re 
 gard it with quite such agreeable feelings as herself, and 
 for their sakes she began to think how it might be avoided. 
 
 Mr. Arnott had always been a great lover of music, and 
 to this part of Florence's education great attention had been 
 paid, yet I had never heard her play so frequently as now. 
 Had she not been afraid of wearying her mother, she 
 would, I think, scarce ever have left her piano. She sud 
 denly stopped, one morning, when I was the only person in
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 157 
 
 the room with her, in the midst of a piece of music, and 
 turning quickly to me, said, " Aunt Kitty, do you not think 
 I play very well ?" 
 
 I was amazed, for Florence had never seemed to me a 
 vain child. I looked at her she met my eye, and did not 
 seem in the least confused. 
 
 " Yes, Florence, I think you do play very well." 
 
 "As well as Miss Delany ?" she again asked. This 
 was a young lady who was a teacher of music, and whom 
 I had once heard play at Mr. Arnott's. 
 
 Still more amazed, I replied, " I am not, perhaps, a fair 
 judge of Miss Delany's powers, as I heard her play but 
 once, but I think you do." 
 
 " Oh ! I am so glad you think so," said Florence, spring 
 ing from her seat, " for then I can give music lessons too, 
 and make something for papa and mamma, if he should 
 lose that money. Do you not think I may, Aunt Kitty ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear Florence, I do not doubt you can, if it 
 become necessary, which I hope it will not but what put 
 such an idea into your head ?" 
 
 " I have had a great many ideas in my head about ma 
 king money, since I heard papa talking of this business ; 
 but I believe what made me think of this, was Lucy Der- 
 mot's coming here last week. Lucy's mother, you know, 
 Aunt Kitty, is very poor, and I remembered hearing Miss 
 Delany say once, that Lucy had the finest voice and quick 
 est ear for music of any child she had ever known, and 
 that she thought it a great pity they could not be cultivated, 
 for then she might support both her mother and herself 
 handsomely. So I said to myself, mine have been culti 
 vated, and if they are not so good as Lucy's, I may do 
 something far papa and mamma with them." 
 
 Mrs. Arnott came in, and nothing more was said on the 
 subject, but I now understood Florence's devotion to her 
 music, and the pleasant expression which her countenance 
 wore when she was practising. It was her generous mo 
 tive which gave a charm to what would otherwise have 
 been very tiresome. 
 
 14 

 
 158 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE THEEE WISHES. 
 
 " RTTN to the window, mamma, run to the window, and 
 see who is come," cried Florence, a few days after, burst 
 ing into the room where her mother and I were sitting, just 
 before dinner. 
 
 It was not necessary to run to the window, it was only 
 necessary to look into Florence's joyful face to see that her 
 father had come. I lifted my eyes to Mr. Arnott's face as 
 he entered : there was no cloud on his brow, no expression 
 but that of grateful joy in his eyes, and I said to myself, 
 all has gone prosperously with him. It was even so. The 
 lawyer, on his return, delivered to Mr. Arnott papers which 
 he had drawn up for Mr. Atwater, and which, with his 
 will, had been left in his hands for safe-keeping. These 
 papers fully secured Mr. Arnott's property. He had lost 
 nothing, but had gained from past anxiety a very useful 
 lesson never to put off important business, even for a 
 day. 
 
 In the evening we gathered around the fire, with grate 
 ful and happy hearts, to hear and to tell the events of those 
 weeks of separation. Already, however, when Florence 
 was not present, Mr. Arnott had heard from his wife of her 
 constant tenderness, and watchful attention to her comfort, 
 and from me of her generous plans for aiding them, should 
 the ill fortune come which they anticipated. He did not 
 praise her in words, but she could not meet his eye, or hear 
 his tones, without feeling that she was dearer than ever to 
 her father's heart. Just before we separated for the night, 
 he drew her to him, and seating her on his knee, said, 
 " Florence, did you ever read the fairy story of the three 
 wishes ?" 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 " Well, I will be your good fairy. Make three wishes, 
 and they shall be granted." 
 
 Florence laughed gayly. 
 
 " Why, papa ! fairies are always women."
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 159 
 
 " Well, I will be a magician ; they are men, are they 
 not ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Now make your wishes." 
 
 " What shall I wish for, mamma ?" 
 
 "Stop," said Mr. Arnott, "they must be your own 
 wishes ; nobody must prompt them, or the spell is broken." 
 
 " And if I make a wrong wish, may I not take it back, 
 ind wish over again ?" 
 
 " No so be careful what you say." 
 
 Florence became grave, and was silent for a few min 
 utes ; then looking up with a smile, said, " I have two 
 wishes, but I cannot think of a third." 
 
 " Let me hear the two, and you can take a longer time 
 to think of the third." 
 
 " Well, first, I wish little Jem O'Donnel could be sent 
 to school, and when he gets big enough, could be taught a 
 trade that is one wish." 
 
 " That is one wish ! I thought that was two wishes." 
 
 " Oh no, papa ! only one." 
 
 " Well, let it pass for one. It shall be done, that is, with 
 his parents' consent, which you must get Aunt Kitty to 
 procure for you. Now for the second wish." 
 
 " I wish little Lucy Dermot could be taught music, so 
 as to give lessons, and support her mother and herself." 
 
 " You extravagant girl," said Mr. Arnott, " it is well I 
 limited your wishes to three, or I should be a ruined man." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! fairies and magicians never find any fault 
 with our wishes, if they are ever so extravagant." 
 
 " Well, Lucy Dermot shall be taught music, if she be 
 able and willing to learn. Now for the third wish." 
 
 " Oh ! I must have till to-morrow to think of that. That 
 is my last wish, and it must be something very good." 
 
 " To-morrow, then, I shall expect to hear it ; and now 
 you may go and dream of it. Good-night." 
 
 I went down early the next morning to put some books, 
 which I had finished reading, into their places in the libra 
 ry, an apartment communicating with the breakfast-parlor by 
 a door, now standing open. While I was there, Mr. Arnott 
 entered the parlor, and immediately after, Florence bound 
 ed in, exclaiming, " Oh, papa ! I have found out my third 
 wish."
 
 160 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 
 
 " Well, my daughter, what is it ?" 
 
 " Why, you know, papa, nurse has a daughter, and she 
 is her only child, just as I am your only child ; and she is 
 very good, too, nurse says." 
 
 " Just as you are very good, I suppose." 
 
 " Oh no, papa, I did not mean that ; but she is going to 
 be married at least, she would have been married a year 
 ago, nurse says, but the man she is to be married to is 
 working hard to try and get a house for her to live in first " 
 
 " And how did you hear all this, Florence ? Did nurse 
 know of my promise to you, and did she ask you to speak 
 of this ?" 
 
 " Oh no, papa ! she does not kncrw any thing about it. 
 I thought when I had such a good chance, I ought to do 
 something for nurse ; so, when she was putting me to bed 
 last night, I asked her what she wished for most in the 
 world, and she said she was so well taken care of that she 
 had not any thing to wish for ; and I said, ' Not if any 
 body was to promise to give you just what you should ask 
 for, nurse, could you not find any thing to wish for then ?' 
 and so nurse told me about her daughter, and said she did 
 wish sometimes she had a home for her, and I thought my 
 third wish should be for a house for her. Just a small 
 house, you know, papa, with flowers all about it, and a 
 garden, and a poultry yard, and a dairy, and " 
 
 " Stop, Florence here are half a dozen wishes at once. 
 I will tell you what I will do. I will have a small but 
 comfortable house built " 
 
 " And a garden to it, papa ?" 
 
 " Yes, a garden and a poultry yard ; the dairy can wait 
 until it is wanted, and the flowers they can plant them 
 selves. This house you shall give to nurse, and she can 
 let her children have it until she wants to occupy it her 
 self. It is only right, as you say, that something should 
 be done for her." 
 
 " Oh, thank you thank you, papa ! That will be my 
 very wish." 
 
 " And now, Florence, your three wishes have been 
 wished, and not one of them for yourself. Have you no 
 selfish desires, my child ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, papa !" said Florence, in a serious tone, " a 
 great many."
 
 FLORENCE ARNOTT. 161 
 
 " I should like to know how you find them, Florence ?" 
 
 Mr. Arnott meant to express by this, that he never saw 
 these selfish desires manifested by Florence ; but she un 
 derstood him literally to mean, that he wished to know 
 how she discovered them, and she answered ; " Why, you 
 know, papa, Aunt Kitty made a little prayer for me once, 
 when I was very, very selfish, and I thought I would say 
 that prayer every night till I had no more selfishness left ; 
 so every night I went over in my own mind what had 
 happened in the day, to see if I must say it, and, papa, 
 there has never been a single night that I have not had to 
 say it, and I am afraid it always will be so." 
 
 " It will, my dear child, for fthere is selfishness in our 
 hearts as long as we live ; but while you watch over your 
 self, and pray earnestly to God against it, he will give 
 you power always to act generously to subdue your self 
 ish feelings." ' 
 
 I have told you enough of Florence, my dear young 
 friends, to enable you to answer the question is she gen 
 erous ? But my book has done little if it has not made 
 you ask a question of much more importance to each one 
 of you are you yourself generous ? Before you answer, 
 yes, remember that the truly excellent are always humble, 
 and that Florence never felt how much selfishness was in 
 her heart, till she became generous. Should your con 
 science answer, no, imitate Florence in her simple, earnest 
 prayer, and honest efforts to amend, and be assured that 
 the same heavenly Father will hear and help you. 
 
 14* 
 
 THE END.

 
 GRACE AND CLARA: 
 
 BE JUST AS WELL AS GENEROUS.

 
 GRACE AND CLARA, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AUNT KITTY'S GREETING. 
 
 NEARLY a year has passed, my dear young friends, since 
 first Aunt Kitty met you with a " Merry Christmas or 
 Happy New-Year." The snow, which then spread a veil 
 over all things, has long since melted away. The spring 
 flowers which succeeded it have withered. The summer 
 and autumn fruits have been gathered. Again winter has 
 stripped even the leaves from the trees, and we awake each 
 morning expecting to find that again he has clothed them 
 in robes of spotless white. And now that the season for 
 holidays and merriment has returned, now that your 
 friends greet you not only with smiling faces and pleasant 
 words, but with presents, as marks of their affection and 
 approbation, Aunt Kitty, too, comes with her token of re 
 membrance. 
 
 Before she presents it, will you permit her to ask how you 
 have received those which she has already sent you. Have 
 you learned from " Blind Alice" and her young friend 
 Harriet, that to do right is the only way to be happy, and 
 from " Jessie Graham," that it is true wisdom to speak the 
 simple truth always, and from "Florence Arnott," that 
 selfishness is a great evil, and will, if you indulge it, bring 
 great sufferings on yourselves and others ? If you have 
 learned these lessons and practise them, then am I sure 
 that your Christmas will be merry and your New- Year 
 happy, that the good-humored tones and ringing laughter 
 of your young companions will never be changed into 
 wrangling and fretful cries, or the smiles of your older 
 friends into grave and disapproving looks. That I think
 
 166 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 of you, this little book will prove, and though I may not 
 see you, I shall probably hear of your improvement and 
 enjoyment, and my holidays will be the pleasanter for 
 them. 
 
 These holidays I shall pass in the country at the house 
 of my friend Mrs. Wilmot, to whom I have already made 
 a very long visit. There are residing here six young girls, 
 the eldest little over twelve, and the youngest under ten 
 years of age. Already they have learned to regard a walk 
 with Aunt Kitty, as a reward for a well-recited lesson, and 
 to cluster around her by the evening fire, with wishful eyes 
 and earnest voices asking for one story more. At any hint 
 of my going home, their remonstrances and entreaties are 
 so vehement, that, I think, when it becomes absolutely ne 
 cessary to leave them, I shall have to steal away. 
 
 I am about to introduce these little girls to you by name, 
 to tell you how their time is generally employed, how their 
 holidays are passed, and thus to make you quite well ac 
 quainted with them. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HAZEL GROVE. 
 
 MRS. WILMOT was left a widow when her two daugh 
 ters, Grace and Lucy, were very young so young that 
 Lucy, who is now ten years old, does not remember her 
 father at all, and Grace, who is twelve, has only a very 
 faint recollection of a gentleman, who, when he was lying 
 on a couch in the parlor, used to have her brought to him, 
 and kiss her, and give her some of the candies which he 
 always seemed to have near him. Mrs. Wilmot found 
 herself not very rich on the death of her husband, and as 
 she was a very highly educated and accomplished woman, 
 she was advised to keep a school for young ladies. She 
 did not remove into a city to do this, for her own pleasant 
 house is near enough to a large town to admit of her having 
 day scholars from it ; and she took no boarders, but four 
 girls, the children of friends who had known her long, and
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 167 
 
 who were glad to have their daughters under her care, on 
 any terms. These four girls are about the age of her own 
 children, and have been educated with them as sisters. 
 Indeed, as they call her " Mamma Wilmot," but for their 
 being so much of the same age, a stranger might suppose 
 them all her own children. Their names are Clara De- 
 vaux, Martha Williams, and Kate and Emma Ormesby. 
 These two last-named girls are twin sisters, and so much 
 alike that it was formerly frequent sport with them to per- 
 plex their young companions by answering to each other's 
 names. This they can no longer do, as Kate has grown tall 
 and thin, while Emma is still a fat, chubby little girl. 
 Mrs. Wilmot, about two years ago, had some property left 
 her, which would have supported herself and her daugh 
 ters very comfortably without the profits of her school, but 
 she had become so much interested in her young boarders, 
 that she was not willing to part with them. She gave up, 
 however, all her day scholars, and then wrote to me re 
 questing that I would visit her, as she would now, she said, 
 have only her six little girls to teach, and would therefore 
 have leisure enough to admit of her enjoying a friend's so 
 ciety. As soon as possible after I received this letter, I 
 went to Hazel Grove, the name of Mrs. Wilmot's place, 
 taking Harriet with me. 
 
 We arrived at noon of a bright day in October. We 
 had already begun to enjoy the glow of a fire in the chill 
 mornings and evenings, but, at that hour, the sun was so 
 warm that it might almost have cheated us, as well as the 
 little birds and insects, into believing that summer was not 
 quite gone. 
 
 Hazel Grove is a very pretty place. It fronts a fine, 
 bold river, to whose very edge the lawn, on which the 
 house stands, slopes gently down. On the opposite side of 
 the river, the banks are steep and thickly wooded. On the 
 left of the house, as we approached, lay a large orchard, 
 which still looked inviting, with its yellow pears and its red 
 or speckled apples. On the right, was a fine old wood of 
 oak and maple and beach trees, intermingled with the 
 smaller hazels, from which the place takes its name. Have 
 you ever, in Autumn, when the nights became cold, watched 
 the trees, as their green first grew deeper and more vivid, 
 and then was changed from day to day into every varying
 
 168 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 shade of color, from russet brown to pale yellow from 
 deep rich crimson, to bright scarlet and flaunting orange ? 
 If you have, you may know how gayly this wood was look 
 ing when first we saw it. 
 
 But pleasant as all this was, there was something in the 
 old stone cottage, with its yard bordered with flowers and 
 shaded with large black-walnut trees, which pleased me 
 yet better ; and best of all was the view which I caught of 
 the parlor through the open windows. There sat Mrs. 
 Wilmot in a rocking-chair, with six little girls around her, 
 to whom she was reading. These girls were all busily at 
 work, except one bright-eyed, curly-headed little thing, 
 seated on a low stool at Mrs. Wilmot's feet, whom I after 
 wards found to be her youngest daughter, Lucy. She, too, 
 had some work in her hand, but she was so much inter 
 ested in what she was hearing, that her needle stood still, 
 while she looked up into her mother's eyes, as if she would 
 read the story in them. I had only a single minute to see 
 all this, for the noise of letting down the carriage steps 
 caused Mrs. Wilmot to look out, and in an instant the book 
 was laid aside, the work thrown down, and she hastened to 
 meet us, followed by her children. 
 
 The rest of this day was a holiday to the children, and 
 while Mrs. Wilmot and I sat talking over old friends and 
 old times, they led Harriet to their gardens and their baby- 
 houses, their swing, and the playground where they were 
 accustomed to trundle their hoops and jump the rope, 
 showed her the calf, Martha's pet lamb, Kate's and Emma's 
 English rabbits, Clara's dove, Lucy's kitten, and Grace's 
 puppy, which were each the most beautiful of their kind 
 that had ever been seen. The next morning I was intro 
 duced to all these beauties, and quite won the hearts of 
 their owners by my evident admiration of them. When 
 my visits were over, Mrs. Wilmot called her little girls to 
 their lessons, in which Harriet, at her own request, joined 
 them. Mrs. Wilmot had a good library, and while she 
 and the girls were engaged with their studies in the morn 
 ing, I was generally there, reading or writing. At dinner 
 we met again, and the afternoon was passed together in 
 some entertaining and pleasant way at home, or in driving, 
 walking, or visiting some of the agreeable people with whom 
 Mrs. Wilmot was acquainted in the town.
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 169 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' \. f IS. THE FRIENDS. 
 
 AMONGST the children at Hazel Grove, there were, as 
 you may suppose, varieties of disposition and character, 
 and though they seemed all to feel kindly and affectionately 
 to each other, each of them had some chosen companion, 
 to whom their plans were confided, and with whom all their 
 pleasures were shared. Kate and Emma, the twins, were 
 almost inseparable ; Lucy Wilmot and Martha Williams 
 walked together, assisted each other in their gardens, and 
 nursed each other's pets ; while Clara Devaux and Grace 
 Wilmot read from the same book, pursued the same studies, 
 and sought the same amusements. Yet there could scarce 
 have been two persons less alike than Clara Devaux and 
 Grace Wilmot. Clara was gay and spirited, generous and 
 thoughtless. A quick temper often made her say unkind 
 words, which an affectionate heart made her feel, in a short 
 time, far more painfully than the person to whom they 
 were addressed. Grace was, on the contrary, of a grave, 
 serious nature, and seemed always to take time to think 
 before she acted. She, too, possessed a very affectionate 
 heart, and the least appearance of coldness or anger from 
 one she loved, would distress her much, but she had scarcely 
 ever been known to speak or even to look angrily. In one 
 thing, however, these girls were alike, they were both 
 remarkable for their truth. I do not mean only that they 
 would not tell a story, for this I hope few little girls would 
 do, but they would not in any way deceive another, and if 
 they had done wrong, they did not wait to be questioned, 
 but would frankly tell of themselves. Mrs. Wilmot, in 
 speaking to me of their attachment, said she was pleased 
 at it, for she thought they had been of use to each other ; 
 that Clara had sometimes stimulated Grace to do right 
 things which, without her persuasions, she would have been 
 too timid to attempt, and that Grace had often prevented 
 Clara from doing wrong things into which her heedlessness 
 would have led her but for her friend's prudent advice. 
 
 15
 
 170 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 Not far from Mrs. Wilmot's lived a man who was feeble 
 in health and somewhat indolent in his habits. He had 
 three little daughters, the eldest of whom was little more 
 than four years old when their mother died. She was an 
 active, industrious woman, and had always taken good care 
 of them, but as their father was far from rich, they fared 
 hardly after her death, and were often sadly neglected. 
 They could not go to any school except Sunday-school, 
 because their father could not afford to pay any thing for 
 their education, and at Sunday-school they were seldom 
 seen, because there was no one to take care that their 
 clothes were mended and washed in time. 
 
 " Poor children," said Grace one day, when she and 
 Clara had passed them in walking, " how sorry I am for 
 them ! They have no kind mother to take care of them 
 and teach them as I have." 
 
 " No, but they might go to Sunday-school, if they would," 
 said Clara ; " and they could learn a great deal there." 
 
 " Yes, Clara, but are you sure that we should ever have 
 gone to Sunday-school, if we had had no one to see that 
 we were ready, and send us there ?" 
 
 "No," said Clara, "I do not think we should." 
 
 The girls walked silently on for a few minutes, when 
 Clara said, " Grace, suppose we teach these poor little chil 
 dren." 
 
 " We teach them, Clara what an idea !" exclaimed 
 Grace. 
 
 " And why not ? I am sure we can teach them to read 
 and to say hymns and verses from the Bible, and we shall 
 be learning something more and more every day to teach 
 them, as they grow older. Come, let us turn back and ask 
 them if they will come to school to us." 
 
 Clara was already retracing her steps, but Grace put her 
 hand on her arm and stopped her. " Stay, Clara, it seems 
 very good, and I am sure I should like to teach them if I 
 can, but let us ask mamma about it first, and if she think 
 it right, she will show us the best way to do it." 
 
 Clara readily agreed to this proposal. When they re 
 turned home, Mrs. Wilmot was consulted. She highly 
 approved the plan, and promised to aid them in its execu 
 tion, provided the time which they gave to their little pupils 
 was taken, not from their studies or work, but from their
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 171 
 
 amusements. For many months before my visit, Clara and 
 Grace had commenced their school, devoting one hour each 
 day to these motherless children. There was something very 
 touching to me in seeing these young teachers' patient and 
 persevering efforts to instruct their charge. Especially did it 
 please me to see the gay, pleasure-loving Clara, lay aside her 
 bonnet, when ready for a walk or ride, put up her battledoor, 
 or jump from the just-entered swing, when she saw the little 
 girls approaching. I said something of this kind one day 
 to Mrs. Wilmot, and Clara, who was nearer than I thought, 
 overheard me. She colored, looked quickly at me, as if 
 she would speak, and then, her courage failing, looked 
 down again. 
 
 " What would you say, Clara ?" asked Mrs. Wilmot. 
 
 " That if it had not been for Grace, ma'am, I should have 
 often put off teaching them, and maybe, should have given 
 it up altogether before this." 
 
 " And how has Grace prevented you, my dear ?" 
 
 " Why, the first time I wanted to put off the lesson was 
 once that Mr. Gilbert called to give me a drive in his new 
 carriage, just as the children came. But when I said ' let 
 us put them off,' Grace looked very sorry, and said, I must 
 remember how much trouble we had had in getting them to 
 come to us ; and now, if we put them off for a drive, they 
 would think we did not care much for the lessons, and 
 would perhaps not come again. Grace seemed so serious 
 and earnest, that I was ashamed of having even thought of 
 putting them off; and so I have never said anything about 
 it since, though I have been very tired sometimes." 
 
 Grace had entered while Clara was speaking, and now 
 said, " Ah, Clara ! but we would never have begun to 
 teach them if it had not been for you." 
 
 My young readers may understand from this sketch 
 what Mrs. Wilmot meant by saying that Clara stimulated 
 Grace to do right things, and Grace prevented Clara from 
 doing wrong ones.
 
 172 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE YOUNG TEACHER. 
 
 THE first Saturday after my arrival at Hazel Grove, I 
 found, after breakfast, that Clara, instead of getting her 
 books, as usual, produced some colored silks and a frame 
 for embroidery, in which was an apron with a border of 
 beautifully shaded white, pink, and crimson rose-buds, just 
 commenced. At the same time, Grace brought out her paints- 
 and brushes and an unfinished flower-piece, which showed 
 both great taste in its design and great care in its execution. 
 These things were laid on the table, and then these two girls 
 seemed to have nothing to do but to watch for the arrival of 
 some one whom they evidently expected with impatience. 
 At length Clara cried out, " I see her, Grace there she is." 
 
 I looked and saw, still at a distance from the house, 
 the figure of a girl apparently not older than those who 
 were so anxiously expecting her. She carried a portfolio 
 under her arm, and walked with a quick, buoyant step, 
 which showed that she was both well and cheerful. 
 
 " Who is that ?" said I to Grace. 
 
 "Cecille L'Estrange, ma'am," she replied. 
 
 " And is she coming to take lessons with you ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am," she said, smiling, " she is coming to 
 teach us." 
 
 " To teach you !" I exclaimed, with surprise, " why, 
 she is a child, like yourselves. What can she teach you ?" 
 
 " Oh ! a great deal more than we have time to learn," 
 said Clara, while Grace added, 
 
 " She is two years older than Clara and I, she is thir 
 teen." 
 
 I had no time to ask farther questions, for Cecille was at 
 the door. She entered smiling, and said, " Ah ! you wait 
 for me but I am punctual, it is just the time," pointing to 
 a clock on the mantelpiece, which said exactly nine o'clock. 
 As she spoke, her eye turning towards that part of the 
 room where I was sitting, she colored, and looked down.
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 173 
 
 Grace, who always seemed thoughtful of the comfort of 
 others, saw this little embarrassment, and introduced her to 
 me. 
 
 Either this introduction, or something in my manner to 
 her, set her quite at her ease ; and when I asked if I 
 should be in their way, it was with a very sweet, engaging 
 smile that she replied, " Oh no, indeed ! I should very 
 much like to have you stay, if you please." 
 
 Before I say any thing more of Cecille L'Estrange, it 
 will, perhaps, be best to tell my young readers, that she 
 was a French girl, and therefore, .though she understood 
 English perfectly well, and spoke it better than most for 
 eigners do, she sometimes expressed herself in a different 
 manner from what an English person or an American 
 would have done : and when she was very much excited 
 from any cause, either pleasant or painful, she would bring 
 in a French word here and there, without seeming to no 
 tice, or even to know it herself. These words, however, I 
 will always translate into English for you. 
 
 I had nothing to do for some time but to watch my com 
 panions as they sat busily engaged, and their silence only 
 broken now and then by a direction from their young in 
 structress. Seldom have I seen any one who interested me 
 more than this young instructress. Now that I saw her 
 more nearly, I still thought that she did not look older than 
 Clara or Grace ; indeed, she was smaller than either of 
 them. Her features, too, were small ; and though, when 
 quite still, there was an earnest, grave expression in her 
 face, when she spoke or smiled, it was lighted up with such 
 animation and gayety that she seemed like a playful child. 
 I watched her very earnestly, for there was something 
 about her which made me think, that young as she was, 
 and cheerful as she now appeared, she had felt sorrow and 
 trial. At one time, in moving some things which stood on 
 the table out of Clara's way, she took up a small bronze 
 figure of Napoleon Bonaparte. She did not put this down 
 immediately, but continued to hold it and look at it, till her 
 countenance grew very sad, and she sighed heavily. Just 
 then, Grace, having put the finishing touch to a splendid 
 rose, placed the piece before her eyes without speaking. 
 In an instant all sadness was gone from her face, and, 
 clapping her hands together, she exclaimed, in French, 
 15*
 
 174 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 " What a beautiful flower !" then, laughing at her own 
 forgetfulness, added, in English, " It is beautiful ! is it not, 
 madam ?" showing it to me as she spoke. 
 
 It was beautiful, and I praised it as it deserved. 
 
 A few minutes after this, Cecille, glancing at the clock, 
 started up, exclaiming, " I must go, it is after eleven !" 
 
 "Wait five minutes," said Clara, "and just show me 
 how to put in that last shade, and I will soon finish this 
 corner." . 
 
 Cecille looked distressed, turned her eyes from the work 
 to the clock, took the needle from Clara's fingers, and then 
 dropping it, said, " I will come back this afternoon, and 
 show you ; but you must let me go now. I told my grand 
 mamma that I would come back to her at half-past eleven. 
 I shall just have the time now to get home before that ; and 
 if I stay longer she will be frightened for me." 
 
 She took up her portfolio, courtesied to me, bade the girls 
 good-by, again assuring Clara that she would come back, 
 and in less than two minutes was out of sight. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Clara, as she was putting up her 
 work, "that I asked her to show me any more to-day, for 
 now she will take that long, tiresome walk back again." 
 
 " Besides, Clara," said Grace, " you know she is always 
 at work when she is at home, and she will lose so much 
 time coming twice to-day." 
 
 " Well, I am sure, Grace," said Clara, reddening at 
 what seemed to her a reproach, " I did not ask her to come 
 again, and I can do no more than be sorry for it now." 
 
 " Yes, we can do something more," said Grace, " we 
 can walk over after dinner and tell her not to come." 
 
 " So we can and so we will," said Clara, relieved at 
 once by seeing that she could do something to remedy the 
 evil. 
 
 *
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 175 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CECILLE. 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Wilmot joined us I told her how much I 
 had been interested by the young ' Cecille, and begged her 
 to tell me all she knew of her. 
 
 " That I will readily do," Mrs. Wilmot replied, " but 
 the all is not much. She has been but a short time near 
 us, for it was only late in the last winter, when the roads 
 were full of snow and ice, that a stage full of passengers 
 from B. was upset, not far from us. None were hurt but 
 an old lady, who had her arm broken. It was quite im- - 
 possible for her to continue her journey, yet she seemed, I 
 was afterwards told, much distressed at being compelled to 
 remain. The pain occasioned by her removal from the 
 road to a neighboring house caused her to faint ; and before 
 she recovered her consciousness the surgeon had been 
 called, and every thing was in readiness for setting the arm. 
 A little girl, who had been travelling with her, stood weep 
 ing beside her, addressing her in French in the most plain 
 tive and tender tones, and by the endearing title of ' mamma.' 
 As the poor lady revived she spoke to this child in the 
 most rapid and energetic manner, while she repulsed the 
 proffered assistance of the surgeon. She spoke in French, 
 which no one present understood, but it was evident from her 
 manner that she was insisting on something which the poor 
 child was vehemently, yet respectflluy and tenderly oppo 
 sing. At length the surgeon said, ' Your mamma, is wrong, 
 my dear, to leave her arm so long unattended to. It is al 
 ready swelling, and every minute's delay will make the 
 operation more painful.' As he ceased speaking the old 
 lady turned to the child and said something with great en 
 ergy. The little girl now, in a very hesitating and embar 
 rassed manner, explained that the lady whom, when speak 
 ing in English, she called grandmamma, did not want any 
 thing done to her arm. ' She will die then,' said the blunt 
 but honest and kind-hearted Dr. Willis. The little girl 
 wrung her hands in agony, and a groan for the first time
 
 176 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 burst from the lips of the old lady, showing that though she 
 either could not or would not speak English, she understood it 
 well. A sentence addressed to her by the child in the most 
 imploring tone caused the tears to spring to her eyes. As 
 Cecille, for she was the child, spoke to her grandmother, 
 she had drawn out a small embroidered purse. This ac 
 tion revealed to Dr. Willis the secret of the old lady's re 
 luctance to have any thing done to her arm. She was 
 afraid to incur the expense of a surgical operation. The 
 bluntest people become gentle when their kindly feelings 
 are excited, and I have no doubt it was with great tender 
 ness that Dr. Willis addressed himself to Madame L'Es- 
 trange in his endeavors to induce her to accept of assistance 
 which, though necessary to her life, she would have reject 
 ed from the fear that she could not pay for it. How he 
 managed it I know not ; but he did at length win her con 
 sent, to the almost frantic joy of Cecille. 
 
 " A fractured limb is, you know, a very serious thing 
 with an old person, and it was many weeks before Madame 
 L'Estrange recovered from the fever occasioned by hers. 
 Dr. Willis saw that she was often painfully anxious on 
 some subject, and remembering the little purse, he was 
 not long at a loss to conjecture the cause. Yet it was a 
 subject on which he knew not how to speak. It was no 
 easy matter, you know, to say to a lady, ' I see that you 
 are very poor, and I would like to help you.' 
 
 " One morning the doctor found Cecille weeping bitterly. 
 With some soothing and some questioning he gained her 
 confidence, and found that the week's board paid that 
 morning had nearly emptied the little purse that her 
 grandmother felt that they could not continue to live on the 
 poor widow, to whose house she had been carried, and 
 where they had since remained, without the means of pay 
 ing her, yet that they knew not where or how to go. 
 ' And what did you mean to do if you had not been stopped 
 here ? Your money would not have supported you any 
 longer in another place,' said Dr. Willis. ' Oh sir ! if we 
 could only have got to some large city, grandmamma says 
 I could soon have made money enough for her and myself 
 too.' ' You make money !' repeated the doctor with sur 
 prise, looking at the delicate figure and soft white hands of 
 the child. 'What could you do?' 'I can do a great
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 177 
 
 many things. I can embroider on muslin and silk I can 
 make pretty fancy boxes I can paint and grandmamma 
 thinks, with some practice, I could take miniatures.' The 
 doctor listened to this list of Cecille's accomplishments and 
 shook his head dejectedly. Had Cecille said she could 
 scrub and she could wash, he could have seen how money 
 could be made by her, but these fine lady works he had 
 been accustomed to think only so many ways of wasting 
 time. Fortunately for our little Cecille, all persons did not 
 consider them so unprofitable. The doctor called at our 
 house after visiting Madame L'Estrange, and with his own 
 mind full of Cecille's sorrows, he repeated to me, in the 
 presence of my children, what he had just heard. Clara 
 scarcely allowed him to finish before she expressed a deter 
 mination to have a muslin cape and a silk apron embroider 
 ed, a fancy box made, a picture painted, and a miniature 
 either of Grace or herself taken. I begged, however, that 
 before giving her orders she would calculate her means of 
 paying for them. These means amounted to five dollars a 
 month, which her father had permitted her to spend as she 
 pleased from the day she became ten years old. Clara 
 soon found that it would be long before this would remu 
 nerate Cecille for half the employment she was arranging 
 for her. She looked at me in despair, and seemed half 
 provoked when I smiled at her perplexity. ' Then I can 
 not help her,' she exclaimed sorrowfully. ' Stay, stay, my 
 dear,' said I, ' do not be so hasty in your conclusions. You 
 may help her very much, though you cannot do every 
 thing for her. How would you like to take lessons of 
 Cecille, and learn to do these things for yourself instead of 
 having them done for you?' 'Oh! I should like it above 
 all things, but will papa let me, do you think ?' ' I have 
 no doubt that your papa will not only let you, but be very 
 much pleased if you choose to devote a part of your pocket- 
 money to your own improvement. Your allowance of five 
 dollars a month will pay Cecille a fair price for so much 
 of her time as will enable her to teach you some one of 
 her accomplishments, and will leave you something for 
 other pleasures too.' Clara was delighted with my pro 
 posal. I permitted Grace to join her in her lessons, and 
 for ten dollars a quarter from each of them, Cecille spends 
 two hours in their instruction on every Wednesday and
 
 178 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 Saturday morning. But this is not all she does. She 
 works very industriously at home, and when her work is 
 completed she brings the article to me, and I forward it to 
 a friend of mine in the city, who has hitherto been able to 
 dispose of whatever she has done to great advantage. In 
 this way this little girl has for some months supported not 
 only herself but her feeble and aged grandmother." 
 
 " Poor things," said I, " if this is all their support, I fear 
 they must often want." 
 
 " Indeed, I think you are mistaken. Their clothing is 
 always neat, and they appear to live comfortably." 
 
 " Then," said I, " they must have some assistance from 
 others ; for according to your own account, the sum which 
 Cecil! e receives from her pupils would amount in a year 
 to only eighty dollars. She must gain as much more from 
 other work tabe able to pay even the most moderate board for 
 two persons ; and then what becomes of their other expen 
 ses ?" 
 
 " Ah ! our Cecille, or rather her grandmother, is a bet 
 ter manager than you would be of her little funds," said 
 Mrs. Wilmot, smiling. " They do not board, but hire from 
 the widow Daly two rooms in her cottage. For these 
 they pay only half of what Cecille receives from Clara and 
 Grace. They keep no servant, but for a trifle obtain each 
 day, from one of Mrs. Daly's daughters, an hour's assist 
 ance in putting every thing around them into neat order. 
 How they live, I know not ; but I am sure Cecille could 
 not be so cheerful as she is, if her grandmother suffered 
 any serious want. Of one thing I am sure they do not 
 run in debt for any thing ; for Cecille, with many blushes 
 and great timidity, begged her young pupils here to pay 
 her by the month, as her grandmother had engaged to pay 
 her rent in that way, and would be very much distressed if 
 she were obliged to be in debt, even for a single day."
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 179 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE VISIT. 
 
 IF my readers have been only half as much interested in 
 Mrs. Wilmot's account of Cecille as I was, they will not 
 have thought it too long. Before it was concluded, I had 
 determined to become better acquainted with Cecille L'Es- 
 trange ; and when, immediately after an early, one o'clock 
 dinner, Clara and Grace put on their bonnets, knowing that 
 they were going to see her, I asked to walk with them. 
 They were very glad to have my company, but asked if I 
 would go with them through the wood and across the fields 
 there were only two fences to climb, and if they went by 
 the road, they were afraid Cecille would have set out be 
 fore they could get to her house. This suited me well ; 
 for I had always rather go through a wood and across 
 fields, than by a dusty road so we were soon on the way. 
 We walked on very quickly, not even stopping to pick the 
 late fall flowers which we saw, though we marked their pla 
 ces that we might get them as we came back . The second field 
 we crossed opened upon Mrs. Daly's orchard, from which we 
 passed through the yard, and would have entered the house 
 by the back door, had not Mrs. Daly met us and begged 
 that we would go around to the front. " Not that I care 
 about it, ma'am," said she to me in an apologizing manner : 
 " front or back, it's all the same to me ; but the good old 
 lady in there" pointing to the room near which we stood 
 " she's a clever body, but she has some queer notions. I 
 guess she's been a lady born, and she don't like somehow 
 that people should see them work so she wants everybody 
 to go to the front door, and in the parlor, where they only 
 do some of their light works ; and as I said before, it's all 
 the same to widow Daly so if you please, ma'am, I'll show 
 you the way round." 
 
 While Mrs. Daly was speaking, I had caught a view 
 through the half open shutter of the inside of the room to 
 which she had pointed. An old lady, dressed in a silk 
 wrapper which even at that distance looked old and faded, 

 
 180 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 was seated in one of Mrs. Daly's high-backed, straw-bot 
 tomed chairs, near a small table on which was spread a 
 clean white towel. A plate with a slice of bread was be 
 fore her. At the fireplace stood a young girl stooping 
 over a furnace of coal, on which was a small pan. Though 
 she had changed her dress and covered her head with a 
 handkerchief, probably to keep her hair free from ashes or 
 soot, I had no difficulty in recognising Cecille. She held 
 a spoon in her hand, and occasionally used it to turn or stir 
 what was in the pan. I was so much interested in observ 
 ing her movements, that I said to Mrs. Daly that I would 
 let Clara and Grace go to the front door, and speak to Ce 
 cille, and I would await them where I then was. The 
 children and Mrs. Daly had just left me, when I saw Ce- 
 cille's glowing and pleased face turned towards her grand 
 mother, while by the motion of her hand she seemed to ask 
 for her plate. The old lady held it out, the pan was taken 
 from the fire, and what seemed to me an omelet was laid on 
 the plate. This, you know, is made of eggs, and it re 
 quires some skill in cookery to make it well. I judged from 
 Cecille's looks that she thought this was well done. She 
 was evidently more pleased with her success, more vain of 
 her powers, in cooking, than in painting and embroidery. 
 From her grandmother's pleased countenance, I was sure 
 she was praising the omelet and its maker. After a while, 
 however, the old lady looked a little sad. She kissed Ce 
 cille's cheek as she was bending over her, and taking the 
 handkerchief from her head, smoothed the hair back from 
 her forehead. Then she offered Cecille her plate, and 
 seemed to urge her to take some of her own cookery ; but, 
 with a smile and shake of the head, Cecille turned to a 
 cupboard, and taking from it a bowl of milk and another 
 plate of bread, placed them on the table. She was just 
 seating herself by her grandmother, when Mrs. Daly 
 opened the door. After some words from her, Cecille rose 
 and left the room, and but a few minutes passed before I 
 was again joined by my young companions. We walked 
 more leisurely home again, and did not now leave the flow 
 ers unplucked.
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 181 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BLIND MAN. 
 
 As we were sitting, one afternoon during the next week, 
 near the parlor windows, the girls and myself at work while 
 Mrs. Wilmot read out for us, we heard the gate open, and 
 looking up, saw an old man, whose clothes seemed to have 
 been long worn, and whose white hairs were covered with 
 a ragged straw hat, approaching the house. A little boy 
 was with him, and as he came near, we saw that this little 
 boy was leading him, by which we knew that the poor old 
 man was blind. He seated himself on the step of the 
 house, and taking off a bag, which was slung over his 
 shoulder, drew a violin from it, and began to play. The 
 children wished to go out and speak with him, and as Mrs. 
 Wilmot did not object, they were soon gathered round him. 
 I followed them. They listened for a while without speak 
 ing. Then Lucy Wilmot, the youngest of the group, pressed 
 up to his side, saying, " Cannot you see at all, sir ?" 
 
 " No, my little miss. But though I cannot see you, I can 
 hear your pleasant voice, and I know that you are sorry for 
 the old blind man, and feel kindly to him, and I am sure 
 that when you know he has had nothing to eat to-day, 
 though he has come a great way, you will give him some 
 thing." 
 
 In an instant all were in motion, and Mrs. Wilmot was 
 soon busy preparing a plate of victuals, with a dozen little 
 hands waiting to carry it to the old man, when prepared. 
 After they had given it to him, the girls came back into the 
 house till the first note of his violin told them that he had 
 dined, when again they flocked around him. Most people, 
 and especially most old people, like to tell their sorrows. 
 The old man was therefore quite ready to answer their ques 
 tions, and they soon learned his little story. It was a very 
 sad one. He had removed some years before with his son's 
 family to a newly settled western state. The land on which 
 they had made their home proved very unhealthy. His 
 son and his son's wife were both in their graves. He had 
 
 16
 
 182 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 been very ill himself, and had only recovered with the en 
 tire loss of sight, and with a constitution so broken that he 
 felt he had not long to live. " And glad shall I be," he said, 
 "to lay this weary, sightless body down in the grave, to 
 which so many I love have gone before me ; but first I 
 would take this poor orphanHaoy to those who will take care 
 of him." 
 
 The tired travellers had yet fifty miles to go before they 
 would reach the home of the old man's only remaining 
 child, a daughter, who, though she had children of her 
 own, would take care of the boy, he said, for the love of 
 him and of her dead brother. Poor little boy ! how sad 
 and weary he looked, and how bitterly he wept when the 
 old man talked of his father and mother ! 
 
 My little readers will easily believe that this sad story 
 excited great pity, and they will not be surprised to hear 
 that on Clara Devaux's proposing that they should give the 
 old man something, each little girl brought her sixpence or 
 her shilling and threw it into a bag which Clara herself 
 held. As the proposal had been hers, I was very desirous 
 to see what she would give, but this I could not do. What 
 ever it was, it made no noise as it fell into the bag, from 
 which I thought it must be paper money, and consequent 
 ly could not be less than one dollar. 
 
 Some of Grace Wilmot's movements on this occasion 
 excited my surprise and curiosity very much. As soon as 
 Clara's proposal was made, she ran into the parlor, took 
 from her work-basket a pocket-book, and taking out all the 
 money it contained, counted it carefully upon the table be 
 fore her. I could see that there were two bills and two sil 
 ver half dollars. Grace took one of the bills, and putting the 
 rest of the money away, turned towards the door, but be 
 fore she had reached it, she seemed suddenly to have 
 changed her mind, and going back, returned the bill and 
 took in its place one of the half dollars. As there was no 
 one in the parlor but herself, Grace did apt suppose she was 
 seen, till raising her head, she caught my eye, as I stood at 
 the window, looking fixedly at her. She colored very 
 much, and running hastily to Clara dropped her half dollar 
 into the bag. 
 
 Now you will say that this was a great deal for a young 
 girl like Grace to give. So it was, and few little girls
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 183 
 
 could have given so much. But I had seen that Grace had 
 more money, and that she had thought of giving more and 
 then had withdrawn it, and I could not help asking myself 
 over and over again what could have been her reason for 
 doing so, whether she had kept it back for some more im 
 portant purpose, or whether it had been only for some self 
 ish gratification. On the answer to this question my opin 
 ion of Grace Wilmot would, I felt, greatly depend. Though 
 I had to wait many weeks for this answer, you will learn, 
 when you have read this little book, that I received an an 
 swer, and what that answer was. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 ABOUT a fortnight after my first arrival at Hazel Grove 
 commenced that delightful season which we call Indian 
 Summer. I dare say you all know that by this we mean 
 the two or three weeks of mild pleasant weather which we 
 generally have in November, after the frosty nights and 
 cold winds have made us suppose that Winter has come. 
 I have no doubt that you all love better to be in the open 
 air at this season than at any other, that you play more 
 merrily when out, and go in more reluctantly. But you 
 have perhaps enjoyed the season without exactly knowing 
 the reason of your enjoyment. Now I would hav8 you, 
 when next there is an Indian Summer, notice how pure 
 and balmy the air is, and of how deep and rich a yellow 
 are the beams of the sun. I would have my young friends 
 observe all the beautiful and pleasant things with which 
 God has surrounded them, for if they do not, they will 
 fail to give Him, in return, the tribute of loving and 
 grateful hearts which is due to Him. 
 
 It was on one of these bright, pure, golden days in Indi 
 an Summer that I seated myself as usual after breakfast in 
 Mrs. Wilmot's library, but I tried in vain either to read 
 or write. Do what I would, my eyes would turn to the
 
 184 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 windows, and instead of the words on the page before me, 
 I saw the leaves on the trees, the white clouds sailing over 
 the bright blue sky, or the little birds hopping from branch 
 to branch. If I had had lessons to learn that day I know 
 not what I should have done, but I had no lessons to learn, 
 so I threw my book aside, put on my shawl and bonnet, 
 and was soon walking in that beautiful wood whose appear 
 ance on my first arrival I have described to you. De 
 lightful indeed was my walk full of pleasant sights and 
 sounds, and often did I wish for some of my young friends 
 to partake of my enjoyments, as I saw a shower of bright- 
 colored leaves whirling about in the air whenever the wind 
 stirred the branches of the trees, or a shy rabbit spring 
 away to a safer hiding-place, or a startled squirrel dart to 
 the topmost boughs which overhung my path, as the dry 
 leaves rustled under my feet. So I wandered on, observ 
 ing all these things, but meeting no one till I had nearly 
 passed the wood. Then I heard a low, gentle voice sing 
 ing. I listened, approaching as softly as possible. Soon I 
 could hear the words, and found that they were French. 
 It was a hymn describing the beauties of nature, and ex 
 pressing the devotion of a grateful loving heart to Him 
 who made it so beautiful. I afterwards had the words of 
 this hymn from Cecille, and have tried to translate them 
 into English verse for you. Here is my translation. 
 
 CECILLE'S HYMN. 
 
 Thine, Father, is yon sky so bright, 
 And Thine the sun, whose golden light 
 Is shed alike on brook and sea, 
 On lowly flower and lofty tree. 
 So Thou, in equal love, hast smiled 
 On seraph high and humble child. 
 
 No sea on which the sun doth look 
 Gleams brighter than yon little brook, 
 The loftiest tree, the lowliest flower, 
 Alike rejoice to feel his power ; 
 And Thou, while seraphs hymn thy praise, 
 Dost bend to hear my simple lays.
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 185 
 
 When I was quite near Cecille my steps caused her to 
 look around. She did not seem at all startled or surprised 
 at seeing me, but with a pleasant smile held out her hand 
 to me as I bade her good morning. 
 
 " I see, Cecille," said I, " that this lovely weather makes 
 you an idler as well as me." 
 
 " Not quite an idler, ma'am," she replied, showing me a 
 drawing she had made while sitting there, of the Widow 
 Daly's cottage and orchard. 
 
 " For what is that pretty drawing intended, Cecille ?" 
 
 " I hardly know yet, ma'am. The sun looked so bright 
 and warm, that grandmamma knew I longed to be in it, so 
 she made me put away my embroidery and come out, and 
 this was the only thing I could do out here." 
 
 After looking at it a moment in silence, she added, " Do 
 you not think it would make a pretty painting for the top 
 of a work-box ?" 
 
 " Yes, very pretty ; but are you never idle, Cecille ?" 
 
 " Not often, ma'am," said she, modestly. 
 
 " And do you not get weary of being always at work ?" 
 
 " Weary of working for grandmamma dear, good grand 
 mamma !" she exclaimed, with energy. " Oh, no ! never." 
 A minute after, speaking more quietly, she said, " Perhaps 
 I should get tired, but when the work seems dull and hard, 
 I always remember what Mr. Logan told me to do." 
 
 " And what was that, Cecille ?" 
 
 " He said that at such times I must think of something 
 that grandmamma wanted very much, and say to myself, 
 this will help me to buy it when it is done, and he was sure 
 then I would not get tired, or want to put my work down." 
 
 " Mr. Logan was a very wise man. Where did you 
 know him ?" 
 
 "In N., a little village that we went to when we first 
 came over from France, when my dear papa was with us. 
 He lived there with us for four years before he went back 
 to France. My own dear papa, how I wish I could see 
 him !" 
 
 " You remember your father then," said I. 
 
 " Remember him !" she repeated ; " why it is only two 
 years since he left us to go back to France." 
 
 "And what made him leave you, Cecille?" said I 
 then in an instant, feeling that my interest in Cecille had 
 
 16*
 
 186 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 made me ask a question which it might be wrong in her to 
 answer, I added, " Do not answer me, my child, if it was 
 any thing which you think your father would not wish 
 you to tell." 
 
 " Oh, no !" said Cecille, smiling, " it was only because 
 some friends wrote to him to say that if he would come to 
 France, they thought they could get the king to give him 
 back an estate that had been unjustly taken from him." 
 
 " And should he get it, would you return to France, Ce 
 cille ?" 
 
 " Yes, for papa and grandmamma love France so well, 
 that they will never, I think, be quite happy anywhere 
 else. My mamma is buried there too, on that same estate." 
 
 " Do you remember her, Cecille ?" 
 
 " No she died when I was a very little baby, and my 
 grandmamma took care of me just as if she had been my 
 own mamma. Papa told me all about it the night before 
 he went away from us, and then he divided all the money 
 that was left of what he had brought from France into two 
 parcels, and he made me count what he took, and showed 
 me that it was just enough to pay for his going back ; and 
 he told me how much was in the other parcel, that he was 
 to leave with grandmamma. It seemed a great deal to me 
 then, but papa said it was very little, and that it could not 
 last long. Then he told me that he had taught me all he 
 could himself, and had others teach me what he could not, 
 in order that I might be able to work for grandmamma and 
 myself, and I must do it when that money was gone, if I 
 hoped for his blessing." 
 
 " And what made you leave N. ?" 
 
 " Because it was such a little village that I could hardly 
 get any work there. Mr. Logan advised us to go to New 
 York ; and we set out to go there, but the stage broke down 
 with us here, and if it was not that poor grandmamma had 
 suffered so much, I should be glad it did." 
 
 "You like your home here, then ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! dear Dr. Willis and Mrs. Wilmot are so kind 
 to us. And then it is so pleasant to teach Clara and Grace, 
 and every month to carry home some money to grandmam 
 ma." 
 
 " Then you carry to her whatever is paid you ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and after she has taken out what will pay Mrs.
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 187 
 
 Daly our rent, and any thing else we happen to owe, she 
 gives me back the rest to do what I please with. I long 
 for this month to be gone, that I may get my money, for 
 I have something very good to do with it this month." 
 
 She looked up so pleasantly in my face, that I said, 
 " Will you not tell me what it is, Cecille ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you will not tell, for I want to surprise grand 
 mamma. I am going to get her some flannel. I have 
 found out already how much it will cost, and I will have 
 a plenty of money, with a little that I laid by from the last 
 month, to get it. Then I will get some one to show me 
 how to cut it out, and it shall be all made before grand- 
 mamma sees it. Do you not think she will be pleased ?" 
 
 " Very much pleased, I doubt not," I replied, " and you 
 must let me cut it for you, and assist you in making it." 
 
 " Will you do that. ? That will be very kind." 
 
 We were both silent a little while, when Cecille, sudden 
 ly looking up, asked, " Do you not speak French ?" 
 
 " Yes," I replied. 
 
 " Then you must come and see my grandmamma. Will 
 you not ?" 
 
 " Certainly with pleasure ; but does she not speak En 
 glish ?" 
 
 " A little, but it is not easy to her and so I do not ask 
 people to see her who cannot understand her French." 
 
 " Shall I go with you now ?" I asked. 
 
 Cecille looked up to the sun and down again, without 
 speaking. I saw she was a little embarrassed, and said, 
 " You would rather I should not go to-day." 
 
 " Yes for it is near grandmamma's dinner-time, and I 
 must go to get it for her," she added, rising. 
 
 I rose too, and taking her hand, said, " Well, good-by, 
 Cecille remember we are not to be strangers any longer." 
 
 " No, no," she said, warmly, " friends good friends 
 now." She held up her face to be kissed, picked up her 
 pencil and drawing, and hastened away. Before she had 
 gone far I could again hear her carolling cheerfully, " Thine, 
 Father, is yon sky so bright."
 
 188 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PREPARATION. 
 
 AFTER this pleasant meeting, Cecille and I, as you may 
 suppose, were very friendly. I visited her grandmother, 
 as I had promised, and found her a very agreeable and ex 
 cellent old lady. I often made my visits to her when Ce 
 cille was obliged to be away, and then she loved to sit and 
 talk to me of her. I told her that Cecille said she had ta 
 ken care of her when she was an infant, and had been to 
 her as her own mamma. She replied to this, that she had tried 
 to do her duty by her, and that she had been repaid tenfold 
 for whatever she had done by Cecille's tenderness and re 
 spect. 
 
 " Ah, ma'am," she would say, " you do not know what 
 it is to suffer want. We often did this, and I would have 
 been sad indeed, if my little girl's cheerfulness had not 
 made me ashamed. I could then speak little English, and 
 Mr. Logan, who was our only friend after my son left us, 
 could speak no French ; so that all my comfort came 
 through Cecille. One day, just before we left our last 
 home, she came running to me, full of gladness, exclaim 
 ing, ' O, grandmamma, I have good news for you.' I 
 thought at first that my son had come back, or at least that 
 there was a letter from him ; but it was that Cecille, in 
 reading her Bible, had just met with a verse saying, that 
 ' the young ravens may lack and suffer hunger, but they 
 that fear the Lord shall not want any good thing.' ' And 
 now, grandmamma,' she said, l I am sure you will have 
 whatever is good for you, for you fear the Lord.' I had 
 often read the same verse in my Bible, but 1 had never felt 
 it to be so full of comfort as I did then ; and if ever I live 
 to see my son's face again, and to go back to the home I love 
 in France, I shall feel that I owe it to that dear child, for 
 whom I thank God every day." 
 
 Madame L'Estrange always spoke in French, but I have 
 translated what she said, that my readers may learn from
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 189 
 
 Cecille's example that the youngest child may do good to 
 the oldest and wisest. I would have them remark, too, how 
 much wiser it is to cultivate cheerful feelings than to be 
 fretful and dissatisfied. Do you not suppose that Cecille, 
 though poor and alone in a strange country with her feeble 
 old grandmother, was happier with her cheerful temper and 
 her trust in the goodness of her kind heavenly Father, than 
 those children who fret at being awoke in the morning, though 
 they are surrounded with every comfort and have the kind 
 est people to attend upon them, who sit down with dissat 
 isfied faces to a breakfast-table covered with good things 
 because they fancy something which is not there, and who 
 thus go through the whole day complaining of what they 
 have and wishing for what they cannot get ? 
 
 But, interested as I was in Cecille, you must not suppose 
 that my whole attention was given to her, or that I failed 
 to make friends of Clara and Grace and the rest of Mrs. 
 Wilmot's children. 
 
 November seemed to be quite a busy month with these 
 young girls, and I was told by Mrs. Wilmot that they were pre 
 paring for an examination, which would take place early in 
 December, when their friends came to take them home for 
 the Christmas holidays. This explained to me their unu 
 sual attention to their studies, but I saw there was some 
 thing more in their minds, of which Mrs. Wilmot knew 
 nothing. Instead of sitting, when they were at work, with 
 their kind mamma Wilmot and myself, as they had former 
 ly loved to do, they now asked to sit together in the school 
 room ; and if, while they were there, either of us entered 
 unexpectedly, they would shuffle away their work, as if 
 they did not wish it seen. Harriet was with them at these 
 times, but though I could not help feeling a little curious 
 about their movements, I would not ask her any questions, 
 because I was sure, if not bound to secrecy, she would tell 
 me without questioning. I was not kept many days in ig 
 norance. Mrs. Wilmot and I were sitting at work one af 
 ternoon, when Harriet came into the parlor and said, 
 " Aunt Kitty, the girls ask you to go into the schoolroom ; 
 they want you to show them something about their work." 
 
 " I will do it, my dear," said Mrs. Wilmot, rising before 
 me. 
 
 " Oh no, Mrs. Wilmot," said Harriet in most earnest
 
 190 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 tones, " they do not want you to go, ma'am ; that is," 
 she continued in a confused manner, " they did not tell me 
 to ask you." 
 
 " Oh, well, my dear child, do not look so agitated," said 
 Mrs. Wilmot smiling, " I will not go. I suppose I shall 
 hear the secret in time. I am quite sure there is nothing 
 improper in it, or Aunt Kitty would not be chosen as their 
 confidant." 
 
 I went with Harriet to the schoolroom, and found that my 
 assistance was wanted in showing Kate Ormesby how to 
 make up a work-bag which she had been embroidering in 
 worsted. 
 
 " And why was this a secret ?" I asked. 
 
 Clara undertook to explain. They were getting some 
 presents ready for Mamma Wilmot, and they did not wish 
 her to know any thing about them till the day of the exam 
 ination, when they intended to put them on her table with 
 a note which they would all sign. Then their work was 
 exhibited. There was a needle-book from one a pincush 
 ion from another a pair of slippers embroidered on canvass 
 from a third, and the work-bag which I have already 
 named. These were the presents prepared by Lucy, Mar 
 tha, Emma, and Kate. 
 
 "And now where are your presents?" I asked, turning 
 to Clara and Grace. 
 
 " Mine is not done yet," said Clara. 
 
 " Well, what is it to be ?" 
 
 " A locket, set with Grace's hair and mine, and with our 
 names on the back of it." 
 
 " And yours, Grace ?" 
 
 She colored and looked down. 
 
 " Show it to Aunt Kitty, Grace," said Harriet ; "I am 
 sure she will think it very pretty." 
 
 " I do not wonder you are ashamed of it, Grace," said 
 Clara, quickly, " when you might have had such a hand 
 some one, so cheaply too." 
 
 " It would not have been cheap for me, Clara." 
 
 " Well, I should think a handsome hair bracelet cheap for 
 anybody at two dollars and a half, but some people never 
 think they can get enough for their money." 
 
 I saw that these words were very painful to Grace, who 
 turned away with her eyes full of tears ; and as there is
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 191 
 
 nothing more disagreeable to me than to hear little girls 
 quarrel, I interrupted any farther remarks from Clara, by 
 urging Grace to show me her present. With a timid man 
 ner she took out of her basket a bracelet of hair, very 
 simply woven, which she had just commenced. It was 
 pretty, and I said so ; yet I acknowledge I thought, with 
 Clara, it would scarce be handsome enough for such 
 a locket as she described. Again I asked myself, can 
 Grace be selfish, that she would not spend her money on a 
 present for her mother ? That she had the money for the 
 bracelet I could not doubt, for I knew that she had the 
 same allowance for pocket-money that Clara had, and she 
 was able to buy a locket, which I was sure, from the de 
 scription, must cost more than two dollars and a half. Be 
 sides, if she had not the money, Clara could not have ex 
 pected her to buy it, or have been angry with her, as she 
 evidently was, for not doing so. These thoughts probably 
 made me look grave, and, if I might judge from her sad 
 countenance, poor Grace was little comforted by my praise 
 of her work. I observed, after this, that there was a little 
 coolness between Clara and Grace. They were not so 
 constantly together as they had been, and sometimes Clara 
 spoke to her friend in a very tart tone, while Grace always 
 seemed gentle, and even humble, as if she was seeking for 
 giveness for some wrong she had done. This did not con 
 vince me that Clara was right and Grace was wrong, for I 
 have often seen the person who was most to blame in a 
 quarrel, the most angry while the least faulty was con 
 ciliating and anxious for peace. 
 
 After this the girls admitted me into all the mysteries of 
 their little plot. I assisted them in their work where as 
 sistance was needed, and was consulted on all their ar 
 rangements. There was a very interesting debate on the 
 question whether the presents should be placed on Mrs. 
 Wilmot's toilet table before she was awake in the morning, 
 and so meet her eye when she first arose ; or whether they 
 should be laid on the library table, while she was at break 
 fast. I gave my opinion in favor of the last arrangement ; 
 and at length brought them all over to my way of thinking, 
 by reminding them that we could not be quite sure Mrs. 
 Wilmot would sleep on that morning until we were ready 
 for her to awake.
 
 192 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 About a week before the examination Clara's locket was 
 sent home by the jeweller. She brought it to me, and I 
 saw, by his mark on the paper around it, that its cost was 
 four dollars. It was plainly but handsomely made, and 
 the initial letters of her name and Grace's were very pret 
 tily engraved upon the back. When the bracelet was fin 
 ished they were both to be sent to the jeweller, who would 
 put them together with small gold rings. For this Grace 
 would pay him. Clara continued to look, and even some 
 times to speak, as if she thought it would be quite a dis 
 grace to her locket to be seen in such company. Grace 
 bore this in silence, though she was evidently much dis 
 tressed at it. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 THE preparations for the examination had not interfered 
 with Cecille's teaching. She came as regularly, stayed as 
 long, and seemed as welcome to Clara and Grace as when 
 they had only their usual employments. It was the last 
 Wednesday in November, and just one week before the 
 day fixed for the examination, that, knowing Cecille would 
 be at Hazel Grove, I determined to walk over and spend 
 the morning with her grandmother. On my way I met 
 Cecille. She was walking very briskly, but stopped to 
 shake hands with me. 
 
 " I am going to see your grandmother, Cecille," said I. 
 
 " I am very glad ; I will not now have any thing to 
 make me sorry to-day. This is one of my bright days. 
 Do you know why ?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " No ? Do you not know that this is my pay-day ? 
 Grandmamma will soon have her flannel, if you help me 
 as you promised, and she wants it in this weather." 
 
 I congratulated Cecille on her coming pleasure, promised 
 her my help, and we parted. 
 
 I spent my morning very ageeably with Madame L'Es-
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 193 
 
 trange, yet I listened to Mrs. Daly's clock, which stood on 
 the mantelpiece, and watched its hands with as much impa 
 tience as if I had been weary and longed to get away. The 
 truth was, I was impatient for Cecille's coming, which I had 
 determined to await, that I might have the pleasure of seeing 
 her happy looks when her wishes were accomplished and the 
 money was actually in her hands. Did you ever observe how 
 slowly the hands of a clock appear to move when they are 
 watched ? I thought this morning that the hour from ten 
 to eleven was the longest I had ever passed. It did pass, 
 however, and at length I saw the hour hand at eleven and 
 the minute hand at twelve. Now I began to watch the 
 windows, for I thought that Cecille must soon be in sight. 
 But here again I was disappointed, and both her grandmother 
 and myself had more than once expressed our surprise at 
 her delay, before she appeared ; and then I could scarce 
 ly believe it was the same Cecille whom I had seen in the 
 morning, bounding along as if her feet scarce touched the 
 earth. She walked now slowly and pensively, and I even 
 fancied once that I saw her wipe her eyes. 
 
 As she came near the house, however, she looked up and 
 her step became more brisk. She entered the room where 
 we sat. I looked at her anxiously, but she turned her face 
 away as if she could not bear to meet my eye, and walk 
 ing straight up to her grandmother, put a parcel into her 
 hand and stood still by her side. 
 
 " You do not speak to your friend, my dear," said Ma 
 dame L'Estrange without opening the parcel, about which 
 she seemed to feel no curiosity. 
 
 Cecille put her hand in mine without speaking then 
 looked again at her grandmother, who had by this time 
 slowly unfolded the packet. She looked at its contents, and 
 then lifting up her face with a smile to Cecille, said, " Ah, 
 little pilferer ! where is the rest ?" 
 
 In a choked voice Cecille answered, " There is no more." 
 
 " There is no more!" exclaimed Madame L'Estrange; 
 " why how is this, Cecille ? This is but half of what you 
 have always received for a month's teaching." 
 
 Cecille tried to answer, but in vain. Her throat swelled, 
 her lip quivered, and throwing herself upon her grand 
 mother's bosom, she burst into tears. Madame L'Estrange 
 was, as you may easily suppose, greatly distressed. She 
 
 17
 
 194 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 stroked Cecille's hair, pressed her lips to her head, calling 
 her at the same time by every endearing name which the 
 French language furnishes, and repeatedly asking, " What 
 is the matter ? Has any one been harsh to my child ? 
 Cecille, what have they done to you, my darling?" 
 
 " Nothing, grandmamma," sobbed out Cecille ; " I was 
 only grieved because I had no more money to bring you 
 to-day." 
 
 " My dear child ! I am ashamed of you, Cecille. You 
 should have been more thankful for this, which will pay 
 Mrs. Daly, and we owe no one else." 
 
 " I know it, grandmamma. Besides, Clara will pay me 
 next week when her father comes for her, and that is a 
 very little while to wait." 
 
 " And what made you grieve so unreasonably, Ce 
 cille ?" 
 
 Cecille looked at me with a half smile as she answered, 
 "Because I wanted that money just to-day very much, 
 grandmamma." 
 
 " And why just to-day, Cecille ?" 
 
 " Ah, grandmamma ! that is a secret," and Cecille now 
 laughed with as much glee as if she had never cried in 
 her life. 
 
 The old lady laughed too ; but she said, " Take care, 
 Cecille, it is not well for little girls to have secrets from 
 their grandmammas." 
 
 " This is a very harmless secret," said I. 
 
 Madame L'Estrange looked at me with some surprise as 
 she said, " You know it then ?" 
 
 " Yes," said I ; " but you must not be jealous that Ce 
 cille chose me for her confidant, all little girls do. Mrs. 
 Wilmot's children have just been consulting me on a very 
 important secret." 
 
 " They told me about it to-day," said Cecille quickly, 
 "and "I asked them to let me tell grandmamma. They 
 were quite willing I should, so you need not mind speak 
 ing of it." 
 
 The story of the examination and of the presents prepared 
 for Mrs. Wilmot on that day, was soon told to Madame 
 L'Estrange, who entered into the little plot of the children 
 with great enjoyment. After we had talked of it a while, 
 I said to Cecille that the bracelet Grace was preparing did
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 195 
 
 not please Clara very much, and indeed I scarcely thought 
 it handsome enough for the locket. 
 
 " I wish she had told me sooner," said Cecille, " I would 
 have shown her how to weave a handsome one. I learned 
 from a lady who came over from France with us. I have 
 done several since I came here for Mr. Brenner the jewel 
 ler." 
 
 " Then perhaps you made the one which Clara wanted 
 Grace to buy, and was half angry with her for not buying." 
 
 " I dare say it is one of mine ; but if it is, Grace could 
 not buy it, for it would cost two dollars and a half, and she 
 had but little more than a dollar left after paying me to 
 day." 
 
 " How did you find that out, Cecille ?" asked her grand 
 mother. 
 
 " Because, grandmamma, Grace saw that I looked very 
 sorry when Clara said she could not pay me, and she fol 
 lowed me out and begged me to take what she had left, and 
 to pay her back when Clara paid me." 
 
 " You did not take it I hope, my dear." 
 
 " No, grandmamma, though I would have done it if I 
 had not known that you would dislike it, and so I told Grace." 
 
 " You were right, Cecille, in not taking it. Better even 
 weep as you have done to-day for an ungratified wish, than 
 borrow money and perhaps be disappointed in your expec 
 tation of repaying it." 
 
 " I shall not be disappointed in that, grandmamma, for 
 Clara says she will certainly pay me the next week." 
 
 " Clara no doubt once thought, my dear, that she would 
 certainly pay you to-day. She may be mistaken again." 
 
 " Clara was very sorry, grandmamma," said Cecille 
 kindly. 
 
 " I do not doubt it, my dear. She is, I dare say, a good 
 little girl and means well, but she is thoughtless, or she 
 would not have spent her money even on a present for Mrs. 
 Wilmot before she had paid her debts. What she owed to 
 you was in truth not her own, but yours." 
 
 " Grandmamma, don't be angry with Clara. You could 
 not help loving her if you knew her, she is so generous." 
 
 " I am not angry with her, my dear. I do love her for 
 her kindness to you, and from many things you have told 
 me, I believe she is generous, but, Cecille, she is not just."
 
 196 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 " That locket cost a great deal, I dare say, grandmamma, 
 and then Clara gives something to everybody that asks for 
 money. She is so generous." 
 
 " Generous but not just, Cecille, when she gives what 
 she already owes to another." 
 
 I saw that Cecille was hardly satisfied with her grand 
 mother's views of Clara, and yet they were so true that she 
 could not oppose them. 
 
 For my part, I had been thinking of Grace. My readers 
 will not have forgotten that Grace's having changed the bill 
 she at first intended giving the blind man for a half dollar, 
 and her contenting herself with giving her mother a brace 
 let of her own weaving, instead of spending money on her 
 present, as the other girls had done, had made me fear that 
 she might be a little selfish that her money might be saved 
 for some gratification that should be entirely her own. I 
 now began to hope that Grace was not less generous, but 
 that she was more just than Clara. 
 
 " Is not Grace generous too ?" said I to Cecille. 
 
 " Is not Grace generous !" she repeated, as if surprised 
 at my question. 
 
 " Have you ever thought that she was selfish ?" I asked 
 in yet stronger language. 
 
 " Grace selfish !" exclaimed, Cecille : " oh, no ! I never 
 saw her do a selfish thing." 
 
 "Do you think her as generous as Clara?" 
 
 " As generous as Clara," she again repeated, and then 
 said doubtfully, " Clara is so generous." 
 
 " You do not think then that Grace takes as much pleas 
 ure in giving to another as Clara does ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I think she does. Grace never seems so 
 happy as when she happens to have what another person 
 wants." 
 
 "In what then is she less generous than Clara ?" 
 
 " Why" Cecille stopped suddenly thought a little, 
 and then said, " I do not know what could have made me 
 think so, only that I never saw Grace give all that she 
 had in her purse as I have seen Clara do." 
 
 " Perhaps that is because Grace remembers what Clara 
 seems sometimes to forget, that she has no right to give 
 away that which belongs to another." 
 
 "Clara does not give away what belongs to another."
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 197 
 
 " Does not Clara's father allow her as much money as 
 Mrs. Wilmot allows Grace ?" 
 
 " Yes just the same." 
 
 " Then how is it that Grace could pay you and Clara 
 could not ? If Clara has given away what should have been 
 paid to you, she has given away what did not belong to her. 
 In her gerierosity she has forgotten justice, while Grace 
 seems to have remembered, ' to be just before she was gen 
 erous.' ' 
 
 The clock striking twelve interrupted our conversation, 
 by reminding me that it was time to return home. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 PLEASURE AND PAIN. 
 
 THE third of December had been fixed for the day of ex 
 amination, and the children at Hazel Grove were so indus 
 trious that some days before that, both the presents and the 
 studies were completed except the bracelet, which went on 
 very slowly indeed but which Grace assured Clara should be 
 ready in time. For the last few days, when the girls were out 
 of school, time seemed to pass as slowly with them as it did 
 with me on the morning I sat with Madame L'Estrange 
 expecting Cecille. Now, as then, however, it did pass. 
 
 The first of December had been a stormy day, but the 
 next morning was as clear and bright as if no cloud had 
 ever been seen. But it was so cold that even the children 
 preferred gathering around the fire to running out, and for 
 me, I could scarcely persuade myself to look out. Poor 
 Dr. Willis ! how he shivered, and how cold even his horse 
 looked, as he drove up to the gate at Hazel Grove, where 
 he had been sent for, to visit a servant who was sick. He 
 came in, rubbing his hands, and declaring it was the cold 
 est day he had felt this year. " Ah ! young ladies," said 
 he, " you none of you know the comfort of this warm fire 
 as I do. You must ride three miles facing this northwest 
 wind before you can really enjoy it. But even that,' ^e 
 
 17*
 
 198 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 added a moment after, " is better than to sit still in the 
 house with little or no fire as some poor people must do. 
 By the by," he continued, turning to Mrs. Wilmot, " I 
 stopped to see Cecille and her grandmother on my way 
 here, and very glad I was to see them enjoying a blazing 
 fire." 
 
 " I have been thinking of them this morning, and fearing 
 that they would not be prepared for this suddenly severe 
 cold," said Mrs. Wilmot. " How do they get their fuel ?" 
 
 " It was wanting to knpw that which made me call this 
 morning. Poverty certainly sharpens the wit, for that lit 
 tle child" Cecille was so small that everybody thought of 
 her as a little child " manages as well as any man could do. 
 The widow Daly supplies them with fuel for a small ad 
 ditional charge to her month's rent. The old lady needs a 
 warm fire, for her dress is not thick enough she ought to 
 have flannel." 
 
 " And has she not ?" 
 
 "No I asked Cecille about it and she colored up and 
 looked as much distressed, poor child, as if it had been her 
 fault that her grandmother was without it. She shall have 
 it, she says, in a few days, as soon as she gets some money 
 that she is expecting. I offered to lend her some till then, 
 but her grandmother had forbidden her borrowing." 
 
 " In which I think she is very wise," said Mrs. Wilmot, 
 " but I wish whoever owes her money, knew how much she 
 needs it just now ; they might pay her, even if it be a little 
 before the time. No one I hope would be so cruelly un 
 just as to keep her out of her little earnings one day tifter 
 they were due." 
 
 I could not see Clara's face as I tried to do at this time, 
 for she was looking out of the windows, but Grace colored 
 as violently and looked as confused as if she had been guilty 
 of what her mother thought so wrong. Her confusion at 
 tracted Mrs. Wilmot's attention. " Grace," said she, " you 
 do not owe Cecille any thing I hope." 
 
 "No, mamma, I paid her the last week." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot turned to speak to Clara, but she had left 
 the room. Dr. Willis, having warmed himself, now asked 
 to see his patient. This withdrew Mrs. Wilmot's attention 
 from Cecille, and she probably did not again think of what 
 had passed, at least she asked no more questions about it.
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 199 
 
 She left the parlor with Dr. Willis, and soon after I rose to 
 go to my room. In going there I had to pass through 
 the library. .There were heavy curtains to the windows 
 of this room, and as I entered, I heard sobs which seemed 
 to come from behind one of these curtains, and then Grace, 
 who had left the parlor a little before me, saying, " Do not 
 cry so, Clara, pray do not cry so. Let us carry Cecille 
 what money we have that will be some help, you know, 
 and your father will be here this evening and give you the 
 rest." 
 
 " How often must I tell you, Grace, that I have not any 
 money ? Did you not see me give all that I had to the 
 jeweller ?" asked Clara impatiently. 
 
 " Yes, dear Clara, but I have some." 
 
 " But I will not take your money, I tell you, after your 
 saving it up so carefully." 
 
 "Yes, Clara, you will take it, if you love me as you used 
 to do ; you know I did not save it up for myself, Clara, 
 you know I would have given it all to that poor blind man, 
 if I had not promised you to buy a bracelet for your locket. 
 How glad I am now that it was not enough for the brace 
 let, so that we can have it for Cecille." 
 
 " And if I take it for Cecille," said Clara, " I should 
 *ftce to know how the locket will get fastened to the brace 
 let." 
 
 " Oh, never mind that," said Grace, " we can sew it on 
 now and have it fastened better by-and-by, mamma will 
 not care how it is done. So come, Clara, I know you will 
 feel a great deal better after you have seen Cecille and 
 given her some money, and told her how soon you hope to 
 have the rest for her." 
 
 I heard no more, but after I went to my room I saw the 
 two girls, wrapped in their cloaks, set out for Cecille's ; so I 
 knew that Clara had been persuaded. 
 
 Early in the afternoon of this day the children began to 
 gaze from the windows which looked towards the road for 
 the carriages of their friends, who were expected to attend 
 the examination of the next day and to take them home on 
 the day after. In about two hours after their watch com 
 menced, a carriage arrived with Mr. and Mrs. Ormesby, 
 and shortly after Mrs. Williams came, but the evening 
 passed away it was bedtime and nothing had been seen
 
 200 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 or heard of Mr. Devaux. Clara became so agitated that 
 as Mrs. Wilmot bade her good-night, she said to her in an 
 affectionate and soothing tone, " Do not look so distressed, 
 dear child, your father will be here perhaps before you are 
 up in the morning." 
 
 But Clara rose the next morning to fresh disappointment. 
 Her father had not come. Knowing the cause of her anxi 
 ety, I was much interested in her feelings and observed her 
 closely. She ate but little breakfast, and every time the 
 door opened she turned quickly towards it. 
 
 The other children were full of interest about their pres 
 ents. They had been placed on the library table when 
 Mrs. Wilmot went into the breakfast parlor. With them 
 was the following note, sealed, and placed so that it must 
 attract her attention the moment she entered the room : 
 
 " DEAR MAMMA 
 
 Accept these keepsakes from your affectionate and grate 
 ful children, Clara, Martha, Kate, Emma, Grace, Lucy." 
 
 Clara was so much absorbed in her anxiety about her 
 father's delay that she seemed to have little interest in these 
 arrangements, and Grace was occupied with her. Thu^ 
 to the younger children was left the management of an a^ 
 fair which had occupied all their minds so long. I had un 
 dertaken to get Mrs. Wilmot to the library, so, after break 
 fast, calling her out of the parlor, I led the way thither 
 and walked directly up to the table. The children fol 
 lowed, and were in time to see her glistening eyes as she 
 read the note, and to receive her caresses as she raised her 
 head and saw them standing near the door. After the first 
 emotion of receiving the presents had subsided, they were 
 examined and admired. " This," said Mrs. Wilmot, as 
 she clasped the locket on her arm, " is a joint present, I sup 
 pose, from Grace and Clara. It is too expensive to have 
 been from one." 
 
 " The bracelet only is mine, mamma," said Grace in a 
 low voice, as if again she felt a little ashamed of her pres 
 ent, " Clara bought the locket herself." 
 
 " My dear Clara, how long you must have been saving 
 your money, and how much self-denial you must have 
 practised before you could pay for so costly an ornament !
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 201 
 
 It is paid for," she added inquiringly, as she saw the color 
 mount to Clara's very temples on hearing her praise. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Clara, and Mrs. Wilmot again fast 
 ened the locket, which she had unclasped while asking her 
 question. 
 
 " Is not this hair yours and Clara's, Grace ?" asked Mrs. 
 Wilmot, bending down her head to examine the bracelet. 
 
 " Yes, mamma." 
 
 " And who wove the bracelet for you ?" 
 
 " I wove it. I know it is not handsome enough for the 
 Idbket, mamma, but it was the best I could do, and I had 
 not money enough to buy one." 
 
 " It is very neatly done, my dear, and if it were less 
 pretty than it is, I should thank you for it far more than for 
 a handsomer one which had cost more than you could prop 
 erly give. But I thank all my children, and accept all 
 their presents with pleasure, because I am sure they all 
 know that they cannot be generous without first being just. 
 You would none of you," she continued, looking tenderly 
 round upon them, '^ you would none of you grieve me, by 
 giving me that which was not really your own, and nothing 
 is your own till it is paid for not even the premiums you 
 are to have to-day, and which you must now come to the 
 schoolroom and win by well-said lessons." This was said gay- 
 ly, as Mrs. Wilmot turned towards the schoolroom, whither 
 she was followed by all the children all light-hearted and 
 happy, except Clara. 
 
 Poor Clara ! how painfully she felt every word Mrs. 
 Wilmot had said. Whatever were her faults, she had al 
 ways been quite sure that she had one virtue generosity, 
 and now she began to feel that, in this instance at least, she 
 had been very ungenerous, for she had gratified herself in 
 making the most costly present to her mamma Wilmot at 
 the expense of poor Cecille. And when she entered the 
 schoolroom, there stood Cecille, whom the girls had invited. 
 How she shrank from meeting her eye ! How she dreaded 
 to approach her, lest Cecille should ask if her father had 
 come ! 
 
 Some of Mrs. Wilmot's friends from the neighboring vil 
 lage arrived, and then the examination commenced. Ex 
 aminations I doubt not you have all attended, but perhaps 
 none conducted exactly as this was. The object here, was not
 
 202 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 to show which scholar was best, or how far one surpassed 
 all others, but how good all were. Each little girl was 
 encouraged to do her best, and they all rejoiced in the suc 
 cess of each one. After they had been examined in their 
 various studies, some of their work was exhibited among 
 the rest, Clara's embroidery and Grace's painting. These 
 were very highly extolled, and Cecille, being pointed out 
 by Mrs. Wilmot as their teacher, received many compli 
 ments, and some persons from the village inquired her 
 terms, and thought she might have several pupils there when 
 the holidays were over. I was much pleased to hear thiS, 
 as it promised greater gain for my little friend. 
 
 Clara had appeared well in all her studies, her work 
 had been admired, her young companions had evinced their 
 affection for her in a hundred different ways, and Mrs. 
 Wilmot had spoken to her with more than her usual tender 
 ness, because she saw that she was distressed by her fa 
 ther's delay. Yet, notwithstanding all this, Clara had nev 
 er been so unhappy as on this day. All coldness, howev 
 er, had vanished between her and Grace, who never passed 
 her without a pressure of the hand, or some soothing word 
 or action. As the day passed on and the afternoon wore 
 away without any tidings of Mr. Devaux, the color deep 
 ened on Clara's face, and she grew so nervous and agita 
 ted, that I, who watched her closely, expected every mo 
 ment to see her burst into tears. All this distress must 
 have appeared very unreasonable to those who supposed 
 that it was caused only by anxiety about her father, whom 
 Mrs. Wilmot had not very confidently expected. But there 
 were three persons present Cecille, Grace, and I who 
 better understood its cause. On her father's coming would 
 depend Clara's power of keeping her promise with Cecille. 
 Cecille's present want of the money, of which perhaps 
 Clara would have thought little but for the remarks of Dr. 
 Willis on the day before, was sufficient to make her ear 
 nestly desirous of paying her : but Clara had yet another 
 reason ; she dreaded lest Mrs. Wilmot should hear of this 
 debt. 
 
 My young readers will have learned from the remarks 
 made by Mrs. Wilmot in the morning to her children, even 
 at the very moment of receiving their presents, how strict was 
 her sense of justice. No principle had she endeavored to
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 203 
 
 inculcate on her pupils more earnestly than this, and Clara 
 could not forget that she had only the day before called 
 the person cruelly unjust, who should keep Cecille's mon 
 ey from her for a day. It was the first time Clara had 
 ever desired to keep secret from Mrs. Wilmot any thing 
 she had done, and this, my dear young friends, is the worst 
 of all unhappiness, to have done what we are ashamed or 
 afraid to confess. 'Clara had been perhaps a little vain of 
 her locket and of her generosity, as she thought it, in 
 making such a present, but I have no doubt she would now 
 gladly have changed places with Grace, and have been the 
 giver of only the humble bracelet. I do not think Grace 
 was now at all ashamed of her bracelet indeed she seemed 
 to love to look upon it ; and well she might, since it was a 
 proof that not even Clara's contempt or anger, or the desire 
 to show her regard to her mother, could make her forget the 
 principles of justice which that dear mother had taught her. 
 She had proved her generosity by giving all she had all 
 that was her own but she had refused, for any reason, to 
 spend that which was not her own. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE DISCLOSURE. 
 
 THE day was past, the visitors from the village had left 
 us, and we were gathered around the parlor fire to spend 
 our last evening together, for the next morning our little 
 party at Hazel Grove would separate. Mrs. Wilmot had 
 promised to return home with me for the holidays. Grace 
 had long ago promised to spend that time with Clara, and 
 Mrs. Wilmot had been prevailed upon to consent that Lucy 
 should accompany her friend Martha. 
 
 The sound of carriage wheels drew Clara and Grace to 
 the window. 
 
 " Oh, Clara !" exclaimed Grace, " it is your father." 
 
 " Yes," said Clara, joyfully, " I know the white horses,
 
 204 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 but why do they not drive to the door ? What is papa 
 going to the stables for ?" 
 
 The question was soon answered. A servant entered 
 with a note for Mrs. Wilmot ; she glanced at it and then 
 handed it to Clara, saying, " There, my dear Clara, you 
 will find there is no further cause for anxiety. Your fa 
 ther has been detained by business, but he has sent the car 
 riage for you and Grace." 
 
 Clara had seized the offered note, and was reading with 
 such eagerness, that I do not think she heard what Mrs. 
 Wilmot said. As she saw from the note that her father 
 was not coming, still more, that he would have left home 
 before she could arrive there the next day, on business 
 which might oblige him to be absent for some weeks, the 
 thought that she must either keep Cecille waiting dur 
 ing all that time, or make the dreaded betrayal of her 
 fault to Mrs. Wilmot, oppressed her so much that she burst 
 into tears. 
 
 " Clara, my dear child, what is the matter ?" said Mrs. 
 Wilmot drawing to her side. " This is something more 
 than sorrow at not seeing your father." She paused, but 
 Clara did not speak. "Is there any thing you wished him 
 to do for you, my dear ? Surely, if there is, you will not 
 hesitate to speak your wish to me." Clara was still silent. 
 " I am grieved at this silence, Clara, I thought you loved 
 me and confided in my affection ; but perhaps you would 
 rather speak to me alone. Come with me to the library." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot then left us, leading Clara with her. She 
 closed the library door after her, and we could then hear 
 only the low murmur of her voice or Clara's heavy sobs. 
 Grace seemed very anxious. She approached the library 
 door at one time as if she was going in, then went to the 
 farthest part of the room from it. At length, her mother 
 opened the door and called her. Grace sprang to the door 
 and was admitted. There was something sad in the tone 
 of Mrs. Wilmot's voice, which made me certain that Clara 
 had told her all ; but I did not hear how she had told it, till 
 many days after, when Mrs. Wilmot related the scene to me 
 as I am about to describe it to you. 
 
 As soon as they entered, Mrs. Wilmot seated herself on a 
 sofa, and placing Clara by her side, strove to win her con 
 fidence by every soothing and affectionate word and action.
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 205 
 
 At last with great effort Clara said, " You will be so angry 
 with me, mamma Wilmot, if I tell you, that you will nev 
 er love me again." 
 
 " Clara, I am angry only with those who are obstinate in 
 doing wrong never with those who confess their faults 
 and try to amend." 
 
 " But you will think me so cruel and unjust." 
 
 " Cruel I cannot believe you to have been, Clara, and if 
 you have committed an act of injustice, and you may by 
 confiding in me be assisted in making amends for it, it is a 
 new reason, my child, why you should speak at once. 
 What is it, Clara ?" Mrs. Wilmot's eye rested just then on 
 the locket which she wore on her wrist, and this prompted 
 the question " Clara, did you speak the whole truth to-day 
 when you told me this locket was paid for ? Do you owe 
 nothing on it ?" 
 
 " No, mamma Wilmot ; nothing on that, but I owe " 
 she stopped. 
 
 " Not Cecille, Clara," said Mrs. Wilmot ; " you could 
 not be so thoughtless so selfish as to keep her hard earn 
 ings from her for a single day, for any purpose of your 
 own. Speak, my child, and^tell me it is not so." 
 
 Clara spoke not moved not except that her head sunk 
 lower and lower, till it almost rested on her knees. " Tell 
 me, Clara, if you have done this wrong, that I may make 
 amends for it at once. Do you owe Cecille ?" 
 
 "Yes," faltered Clara. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot rose, and after calling Grace, seated herself 
 at the library table and wrote a few lines to Cecille, in 
 which she was about to enclose the price of a month's tu 
 ition, when Grace, who had seen her counting it out, said, 
 " Mamma, Clara does not owe Cecille so much, she paid her 
 some." 
 
 " Clara," asked Mrs. Wilmot, " how much do you owe 
 Cecille ?" 
 
 'I do not know exactly, ma'am." 
 
 ' How much did you pay her ?" 
 
 ' All that Grace had. I do not know how much it was." 
 
 ' How much was it, Grace ?" 
 
 ' One dollar and fifteen cents, mamma." 
 
 The money was enclosed, Mrs. Wilmot sealed the note 
 and handed it to Grace, bidding her give it to a servant 
 
 18 

 
 206 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 and tell him to take it immediately to Cecille. " But stay, 
 Grace," she added, laying her hand on her arm and look, 
 ing into her face, " you owe her nothing ?" 
 
 " No, mamma nothing," said Grace, meeting her mo- 
 ther's eye fully. 
 
 " God bless you, my child, for saving me that pain. I 
 can wear your bracelet, Grace, with pleasure, for it has 
 cost no one sorrow ; but this locket, Clara, you must re 
 ceive it again, for I cannot wear it." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot, while she was speaking, had taken the 
 bracelet from her arm, and severing with a small penknife 
 the silk which fastened the locket, replaced the bracelet on 
 her wrist, confining it with a pin, and approaching Clara, 
 laid the locket on her lap. 
 
 This was the deepest humiliation, the severest punish 
 ment that could have been inflicted on poor Clara. 
 
 She started up, flinging the now unvalued locket on the 
 floor, and falling on her knees, clasped Mrs. Wilmot's hand, 
 exclaiming, " Oh, mamma Wilmot ! forgive me, and love 
 me again." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot seated herself, and raising Clara, said, " I 
 do forgive you, my child, and it is because I love you, Cla 
 ra, that I am so deeply pained by your doing wrong ; but 
 I must see some effort to amend some proof that you have 
 learned to regard what belongs to others, before I can again 
 confide in you. I will give you an opportunity of recover 
 ing rny confidence. You are now in my debt to the amount 
 of one month's payment of Cecille, for I will return to 
 Grace the money which she lent you. When, by economy 
 and self-denial, you have paid this debt,' I shall think that 
 you have learned that you have no right to gratify even 
 your amiable and generous feelings at the expense of an 
 other that you have learned to be just be fore you are gen- 
 erous, and then, Clara, I shall again confide in you as well 
 as love you. But remember, it must be by economy and 
 self-denial, not by any present from your father or any in 
 crease of your allowance. When this task is accomplished, 
 give me back the locket, and I will wear it, with both pleas 
 ure and pride. Till then, you must wear it yourself, Cla 
 ra. It may be useful to you by reminding you of your 
 task and the reward of your success." 
 
 Clara wept but more gently. There was now hope be-
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 207 
 
 fore her, and when Mrs. Wilmot kissed her and hade her 
 good-night, though she was sad and humbled, she was more 
 composed than she had been since telling Cecille that she 
 could not pay her. Her fault had now been told there 
 was nothing to conceal, and this would have made her feel 
 far happier than she had done, even had her punishment 
 been much more severe than it was. 
 
 It must have been very mortifying to Clara to wear the 
 locket herself before those who knew for what purpose she 
 had bought it ; but so anxious was she to regain her mam 
 ma Wilmot's good opinion by compliance with her wishes, 
 that she appeared at breakfast the next morning with it on 
 her wrist sewed to a piece of riband. She looked very un 
 like the lively and high-spirited Clara, for she was silent, 
 and if others spoke to her, while answering them, she col 
 ored and seemed abashed. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot had prepared a parting present for each of 
 the children for the four youngest, books, for Grace a very 
 handsome paint-box, and for Clara, a work-box with many 
 colored silks for her embroidery. After breakfast, calling 
 them to her own room, she delivered these presents to them, 
 commencing with the youngest. To all except Clara she 
 said, that they were premiums or rewards for their good 
 conduct. To Clara she said, the box was a mark of her 
 affection and her approval of her as a scholar. Clara felt 
 this distinction, and stood still without attempting to take 
 her box. 
 
 "Why do you not take it, Clara?" asked Mrs. Wilmot. 
 
 She burst into tears as she replied, " I do not want it, 
 mamma Wilmot, till you can love me just as well as you 
 used to do." 
 
 " I do love you, my dear Clara, just as well as ever," 
 said Mrs. Wilmot, kissing her ; " but I will keep the box, 
 since you wish it, until I can restore to you my full esteem 
 and confidence, and then we will exchange gifts/' touching 
 the locket with her finger. 
 
 In an hour after this scene, we had said " good-by" to 
 each other, and were travelling on our different roads.
 
 208 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE REWARD. 
 
 MRS. WILMOT was with me three weeks, and then re 
 turned home to prepare for receiving her children again. It 
 was from a letter of hers that I learned what I am now go 
 ing to tell you. 
 
 Clara returned wearing the locket. Did you ever read 
 a fairy tale in which a young prince is said to have been 
 presented with a ring that pricked his finger whenever he 
 was in danger of doing wrong ? Clara's locket was to her 
 what this ring was to the young prince. Whenever she was 
 about to spend money either on her own fancies or the fan 
 cies of others, it would remind her that till her debt was 
 paid, the money in her purse was not hers, and that to be 
 truly generous, she must first be just. A month passed, and 
 she took to Mrs. Wilmot nearly two dollars, which was all 
 that remained of her pocket-money after paying Cecille. 
 Mrs. Wilmot praised her for the effort she had made to do 
 rightly, and Clara was almost happy. Another month went by. 
 
 Cecille came to give her morning lesson, and immediate 
 ly after it, Clara and Grace appeared at the door of the 
 room in which Mrs. Wilmot was seated. 
 
 " Come in, my children," she said very pleasantly, for 
 she thought she knew their errand. 
 
 They walked up to her. Clara paid her debt even to 
 the last penny. 
 
 " Now, mamma Wilmot," said she, when it had been re 
 ceived, " can you confide in me again ?" 
 
 " Yes, Clara, fully, entirely, far more than before you 
 had ever made it necessary that I should try you as I have 
 done. Before that trial I hoped that you would persevere 
 in doing right at the expense of some pain to yourself, / 
 am now sure that you will. I always knew that you had right 
 feelings, Clara, and I loved you for them ; I now know that 
 you have right principles, and honor you for them. Why 
 do you smile, Grace ?" 
 
 " Because it seems so strange, mamma, that you should 
 talk of honoring a little girl like Clara."
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 209 
 
 "A little girl, Grace, who resists the temptation to do 
 wrong and steadily perseveres in doing right, is as deserv 
 ing of honor as any one, and I repeat that I honor Clara." 
 
 Tears stood in Clara's eyes, and her cheeks were flushed 
 with emotion. 
 
 " Then, mamma Wilmot, you will not be ashamed to 
 wear the locket?" 
 
 " No, my loye, I shall be proud to wear it." 
 
 Clara took something from Grace, saying, " You must let 
 me put it on, Grace." 
 
 " But you must first sew it to my bracelet," said Mrs. 
 Wilmot, taking off that which Grace had woven and which 
 she wore tied with a piece of riband'. 
 
 " No," said Clara, " here is the bracelet as well as the 
 locket," and she produced a very handsome hair bracelet, 
 fastened to the locket with small gold rings, and clasped it 
 with a most triumphant air on Mrs. Wilmot's wrist. 
 
 " You did not weave this, Grace." 
 
 " No, mamma, Cecille wove it, and I paid her for it just 
 what the jeweller pays her, and then I got Mr. Brenner to 
 put it on the locket, and yet I have some of the money left 
 that I have saved up these two months." 
 
 " Why, have you been saving too ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma, Clara would not let me spend my money 
 on her, because she said you told her she must practise 
 self-denial, and it would not be self-denial if I gave her 
 what she wanted." 
 
 " That was being a little extravagant in your under 
 standing of what I meant, Clara ; I only intended that you 
 should be self-denying in the use of your own money." 
 
 " Was I wrong to refuse Grace ?" asked Clara anxiously. 
 
 "No, my dear not wrong. It was more than I de 
 manded of you, but with your understanding of my words, 
 it was quite right." 
 
 "But, mamma," said Grace, a little impatiently, "I was 
 going to tell you that Clara and I both have some money 
 left, and now that we see how much we can save, we 
 thought that is, we wanted to ask you whether we could 
 not do some good with it." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot smiled. 
 
 " Don't laugh at us, mamma : it is not very foolish 
 is it?" 
 
 18*
 
 210 GRACE AND CLARA. 
 
 " Foolish, my child ! it is very wise ; and if I smiled, 
 it was with pleasure that my children should have had such 
 a thought. This is being truly generous. Older people 
 than you sometimes make the mistake of calling those gen 
 erous who value money so little that they throw it away 
 without thought or care ; but the truly generous value it 
 much, because they know that it can buy clothing for the 
 naked, and food for the starving. What they so value, 
 they can neither keep from those to whom it is due, nor 
 throw away on foolish trifles. So, you see, the truly gen 
 erous are just and economical. But what good have you 
 thought of doing first with your money ?" 
 
 Clara now spoke : " We thought first we would try to 
 get some good clothes for the Sandfords, that they may go 
 to Sunday School." 
 
 The Sandfords were the three little girls whom Clara 
 and Grace taught. I cannot repeat to you all that Mrs. 
 Wilmot said in reply to this proposal, but I can tell you 
 what she did. She went with the girls to make their pur 
 chases, showed them how to lay out their money most ad 
 vantageously for their little pupils, cut out the garments for 
 them when the cloth was brought home, and directed them 
 how to make them. In this work Martha and Lucy, Kate 
 and Emma assisted so that their kindly and generous feel 
 ings were awakened, and they too began to save from their 
 own selfish gratifications to give to those who were in want. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot now takes the children with her when she 
 goes to visit the sick and the poor around her, and in these 
 visits they often find some object for their charity. Some 
 times it is an old woman who needs a flannel wrapper 
 sometimes, a child who is walking on snow and ice with 
 out shoes. These they would once, perhaps, have passed 
 without notice ; but now they do, what we all should do 
 they look out for opportunities to do good.
 
 GRACE AND CLARA. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 IN the commencement of this book, I told you that I was 
 again at Hazel Grove. Again Harriet and I arrived in 
 October, when the woods were bright with many colors. 
 We were received with even more joy than on our first visit, 
 and though some weeks have passed since I began to tell 
 you of my young acquaintances here, they seem quite as 
 unwilling to hear of my return home as I then told you 
 they were. 
 
 And I have seen Cecille too, and her good grandmother. 
 They are still at the widow Daly's cottage, but times are 
 greatly changed with them since we parted. Cecille is no 
 longer a teacher for money though she is never so well 
 pleased as when she can gratify her companions by im 
 parting to them some of her own accomplishments. She 
 assists too in all their works of charity, and seems to think 
 the poor have double claims on her because she knows 
 what their trials are. She will leave us ere long, for Mr. 
 L'Estrange having regained his estate, is preparing his 
 home in France for the return of his mother and daughter, 
 and will come for them in the Spring. Cecille will, I am 
 sure, part with us with pain ; yet she will soon forget her 
 pain in her grandmother's pleasure and in the midst of 
 our sorrow, we shall none of us, I hope, be too selfish to 
 rejoice in her prosperity. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot's children will all spend their holidays at 
 Hazel Grove this year. I have promised to remain with 
 them during that time, and Madame L'Estrange and Cecille 
 are to be with us on Christmas day.- We are anticipating 
 great enjoyment on that day. I should like to be able to 
 tell you how it passes ; but that I must do in another book, 
 for if I keep this till then, it will be too late to bring you 
 Aunt Kitty's Merry Christmas. 
 
 THE END.

 
 ELLEN LESLIE: 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE REWARD OF SELF-CONTROL,
 

 
 
 ELLEN LESLIE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE REWARD OF SELF-CONTROL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BIRTH-DAY PAETY. 
 
 " WHO will be invited to your party ?" asked Harriet of 
 Anna Melville, the eldest daughter of my old friends, Col. 
 and Mrs. Melville, who resided in the town of H., and to 
 whom I had been making a visit of some weeks. 
 
 Anna was a lively good-tempered girl, who wanted only 
 two days of being twelve years old. For the last week, she 
 had scarcely been able to speak of any thing but the party 
 which was to be given on her birth-day, and to which Har 
 riet's question referred. 
 
 " Who ?" said Anna in reply ; " oh, all the girls I know. 
 Let me see there are Helen Lamar, and Lucy Liston, and 
 Mary and Ellen Leslie " 
 
 " Ellen Leslie," exclaimed Emma, a younger sister of 
 Anna who stood near her listening, " Ellen Leslie why, 
 Anna, you surely will not ask her. You know she will 
 get into a passion with somebody before the evening is over ; 
 or even if she should not, we shall all be so much afraid of 
 offending her that there will be no fun." 
 
 " But, Emma, if we do not ask Ellen, Mary will not 
 come, and you know none of us would enjoy ourselves half 
 so much if Mary were not here." 
 
 " No, we should not ; but at any rate I will take care 
 not to bring out my handsome doll and my best teacups, 
 for if Miss Ellen get angry, she will not mind breaking 
 them." 
 
 Having overheard this dialogue, I felt no little curiosity
 
 216 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 to see the two sisters who were so differently regarded by 
 their young friends. 
 
 The two days passed away slowly enough to the expecting 
 children ; but they did pass, and the birth-day arrived. All 
 was bustle and preparation at Col. Melville's. Anna su 
 perintended and directed and hurried every one, and was 
 dressed herself an hour before the time appointed for her visit- 
 ers. At length, just as she had become weary of watching for 
 them, and was beginning to express her opinion that no one 
 was coming, a group was seen approaching. Then came 
 another and another, till twenty young girls, neatly dressed, 
 and with smiling, happy faces, were collected. Among the 
 latest arrivals were Mary and Ellen Leslie. I had seen 
 them from the windows before they entered the house, and 
 was much pleased with their appearance. They wore very 
 simple white dresses, and their hair fell in natural ringlets 
 over their shoulders, unconfined and without ornament of 
 any kind. As they entered the parlor, all the girls went for 
 ward to welcome them ; but it was easy to see that the 
 gladness which all expressed was more for Mary than for 
 Ellen their greetings being made something in this way : 
 
 " Oh, Mary ! I am so delighted to see you and Ellen 
 too!" 
 
 But for the conversation between Anna and Emma Mel 
 ville which I had overheard, I should not have known how 
 to account for this difference, for Ellen was not at all less 
 pleasing in appearance than Mary. Indeed she would have 
 impressed many persons more agreeably, for Mary's coun 
 tenance, though very gentle, was very serious, while El 
 len's was gay and animated. 
 
 All was pleasantness in the little party for about an hour, 
 when the children were called to tea. I did not go to the table 
 till they were seated. When I did, I saw that there was a 
 cloud on Ellen Leslie's face, but what had caused it I could 
 not discover. When tea was over, the various entertain 
 ments of the evening commenced. On one side of the par 
 lor, around a table, was seated a group of girls playing 
 what they called an historical game that is, amusing them 
 selves with cards containing questions and answers on his 
 torical subjects. In this game, the questions were held by 
 one person, and the cards containing the answers were dis 
 tributed equally among the rest of the players. As a ques-
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 217 
 
 tion was asked, any girl who found among her cards an 
 answer which seemed to her the correct one, read it. 
 Sometimes two or three would begin to read together, and 
 so long as they could bear to be laughed at without losing 
 their tempers, those who made the greatest mistakes, per 
 haps contributed most to the merriment of the party. At 
 this game about eight or ten girls were engaged. A few 
 others amused themselves with dissected maps, and the rest 
 gathered together in one corner of the room with Emma's 
 cups and saucers, baby-house and doll. 
 
 From the brightening up of Ellen Leslie's countenance 
 when the historical cards were produced, and her evident 
 desire to make one in that game, I had felt quite sure that 
 she was well acquainted with its subjects, and so it proved. 
 For some time her answers were ready and correct, while 
 her laugh was first and loudest at the blunders made by 
 others. At length, the questions seemed to relate to a portion 
 of history on which Ellen was not so much at home, and 
 once and again her answer was followed by a laugh. In 
 the first laugh which she thus excited Ellen made a feeble 
 effort to join, but it was very feeble. At the second, her 
 face flushed, she looked gloomily down, and from that time, 
 though she sat with the cards in her hands, she did not an 
 swer a question or take any part in the game. After a 
 while some wonder was expressed that no answers could be 
 found to several of the questions. All around the table 
 carefully examined their cards and declared they did not 
 have them, except Ellen she remained silent, and held her 
 cards without looking at them. 
 
 " Ellen, perhaps you have them," said Anna Melville. 
 
 " You can see," said Ellen, laying her cards down before 
 Anna. 
 
 " Oh no !" said Anna quickly, " you look at them your 
 self." 
 
 " I do not suppose I should know the answers if I saw 
 them," said Ellen sulkily ; " and besides, I am tired play 
 ing," and she rose from the table. As she moved off to a 
 distant part of the room and seated herself alone, I glanced 
 at Mary and saw her eyes fixed on her sister with such an 
 expression of sorrowing tenderness, that for her sake I de 
 termined to try whether I could not restore Ellen to a hap 
 pier mood. I approached her with a book of prints, and seat- 
 19
 
 218 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 ing myself near her, drew a stand towards us and invited 
 her to look at them with me. She looked as if she would 
 like to refuse, but ashamed probably to do this to one so 
 much older than herself, she contented herself with remain 
 ing sulkily silent, scarcely glancing at first at the pictures 
 as I turned the leaves and announced the different subjects. 
 At length, however, some anecdote I told attracted her at 
 tention. She asked a question she smiled she laughed 
 aloud. Again I turned my eyes upon Mary Leslie. She 
 was looking at me with a countenance so full of thankful 
 ness and lit up with so sweet a smile, that I no longer won 
 dered at her young companions loving her so tenderly. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 THE next day an old gentleman, a Mr. Villars, dined at 
 Mr. Melville's. Mr. Villars was a widower. His wife 
 had been a sister of Mrs. Leslie, the mother of Mary and 
 Ellen. She had been long dead, but. having never married 
 again, he had remained much attached to her family, and 
 having had no children of his own, he had always taken a 
 deep interest in Mary and Ellen, petting them quite as 
 much and perhaps scolding them a little more than their 
 father. He was a favorite with children generally, for he 
 interested himself in their amusements and pursuits. 
 
 " And so, Miss Anna," said he, as he entered the parlor 
 in which we were sitting after dinner, " you had a party 
 last night. Pray, why was not I invited ? Mary Leslie 
 made me quite envious, I assure you, by telling me of the 
 enjoyment you had." 
 
 " And what did Ellen say ?" asked the talkative and 
 thoughtless Emma Melville. 
 
 " Oh, Ellen ! I never mind her reports, for if they are not 
 agreeable, I always suppose something has happened to put 
 her out of temper. Poor child ! poor child !" 
 
 This exclamation was made with deep feeling, and we 
 were all grave and silent till Mr. Villars, turning to me,
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 219 
 
 said, " I must not let you, ma'am, who are a stranger to her, 
 suppose that our little Ellen has no good in her. She is, I 
 assure you, a very affectionate child, and though she is so 
 ready to fancy herself neglected or ill treated, and so quick 
 to resent it, she is very grateful for kindness, and you have 
 quite won her heart by your efforts to amuse her last even- 
 ing." 
 
 " I am pleased," I replied, " to have made so agreeable 
 an impression, but I was repaid for my efforts by the inter 
 est she excited. I believe what you say, sir, that she is af 
 fectionate and grateful indeed, that her feelings are as 
 quick as her temper. Forgive me if I add, that it seems to 
 me it must be in some degree the fault of those to whom 
 her education has been confided, that, with such qualities, 
 she is not more pleasing and amiable." 
 
 " You are right, ma'am, it is their fault. I have done 
 my best to correct it, but all in vain. She has been spoiled 
 from her very birth, for her mother's health had even then 
 begun to fail, and she was quite unequal to the management 
 of so spirited a child. Ellen was but four years old when 
 that gentle mother died, Mary was seven " 
 
 " Is it possible," said I, interrupting him in my surprise, 
 " that there is so much difference in their ages ?" 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " three years. Mary is now thir 
 teen, though she does not look like it, and Ellen is only ten. 
 Well, as I was about to tell you, Mary at seven was a se 
 date, quiet, thoughtful child, and Mrs. Leslie, when she be 
 came sensible that she could not live long, used to talk much 
 to her of Ellen's claims on her kindness, and dependence 
 upon her tenderness, when she should be gone from them. 
 She taught her to pray morning and evening that God would 
 make her gentle and kind to her little sister, as her mother 
 had been to them both. Mary, I am sure, has never for 
 gotten or omitted that prayer." 
 
 " Poor Mary !" said I, " these were very sad thoughts 
 and heavy cares for one so young." 
 
 " So they were, ma'am, and so I once ventured to tell 
 Mrs. Leslie. Never shall I forget her reply. ' Ah, brother !' 
 said she she had always called me brother from the time of 
 my marriage with her sister ' ah, brother ! a mother, and a 
 mother near death, sees far more clearly the dangers of her 
 children than any other can do. My gentle Mary has a
 
 220 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 strength of character you little dream of, and though never 
 very gay, she will not long remain unreasonably sad ; but 
 my poor Ellen, with a nature so affectionate that she 
 cannot be happy unless she is loved, and a temper so pas 
 sionate that she will often try the forbearance of her best 
 friends almost beyond endurance, how much suffering is 
 before her ! Do not blame me, if before I go from her, I 
 strive to make Mary's love for her such as her mother's 
 would have been such as not even her faults shall be able 
 to overcome. Mary's path through life will be smooth, she 
 must support Ellen through her rough and thorny way.' I 
 did not feel that all this was right," continued Mr. Villars, 
 " for I think that every one should bear the consequences 
 of their own faults ; but I could not argue with a dying 
 woman, and I comforted myself that all would come right, 
 that Mary would forget all this, and scold and cross her 
 sister, just as other elder sisters do," tapping Anna Melville 
 playfully on the head as he spoke, " or that Mr. Leslie 
 would control her. But I was mistaken, it has never come 
 right. Mary, I verily believe, has never crossed Ellen's 
 wishes in her life ; and if Mr. Leslie has ever attempted to 
 do so, she has almost always stormed or coaxed him out of 
 his design, more frequently stormed, for she has not pa 
 tience for coaxing." 
 
 " And how does she get what she wishes from you ?" asked 
 Col. Melville with a smile, for he knew that Mr. Villars 
 was very indulgent to both the children. 
 
 " Why, the cunning jade," said Mr. Villars laughing, 
 " I will tell you how. A long time ago I repeated to her 
 Esop's fable of the sun and the wind, and told her, Mary 
 was the sun and she was the wind. Then, Uncle Villars, 
 said she, whenever I want to make you do any thing, I will 
 send Mary to you ; and she has been true to her word, 
 she always sends Mary." 
 
 " And what was the fable, Mr. Villars ?" asked Emma 
 Melville. 
 
 " Why, that the sun and the wind had a great quarrel 
 once about which was the strongest, and a traveller passing 
 by while the quarrel was at its height, they agreed that it 
 should be decided in favor of the one which should soonest 
 get his cloak from him. So the wind rose in its might, and 
 blew and blew upon the poor traveller : but all in vain ; he
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 221 
 
 only wrapped his cloak more closely round him. Then the 
 sun came out and beamed right down upon the man bright 
 er and brighter, and warmer and warmer : but not long ; 
 for the traveller was very soon glad to throw off his thick, 
 heavy cloak. So the sun conquered, as kindness and gen 
 tleness, Miss Emma, always will, sooner than blustering 
 and storming." 
 
 I saw little more of Mary and Ellen Leslie during this 
 visit to H., and it was more than two years before I return- 
 ed there again. When I did, I found that great changes 
 had taken place in the situation of these young girls. 
 Their father had been dead for more than a year. Mr. 
 Leslie was a merchant, and was thought quite rich even by 
 his most intimate friends ; yet when he died, and his affairs 
 were examined, it was found that he was poor so poor, that, 
 after his debts were paid, his children would have nothing. 
 But Mr. Villars it was thought would provide for them. 
 .He did take them to his house for a few months, till Mary, 
 whose health had become enfeebled by her close attention 
 to her father during his long illness, grew well and strong 
 again ; but then reports began to be whispered about that 
 Mr. Villars had lost much of his property through Mr. 
 Leslie that he was in debt, and could no longer afford to 
 live as he had done. Then it was said that he must give 
 up his servants, that he must let or sell his house and go to 
 board in some cheap country place. Mary and Ellen would 
 not go with him he would leave them in H., for he could 
 only pay their board they must do something for their own 
 support, and that could best be done among their old friends. 
 Accordingly when I came to H., I found Mr. Villars gone, 
 his house occupied by another family, and Mary and Ellen 
 boarding with a widow who lived in a very plain, small 
 house, in one of the humblest streets of H. Mary, I was 
 told, gave lessons in music to two or three pupils, and grate 
 fully accepted any employment offered her, either of plain 
 sewing, embroidery, or fancy work. At first, she had some 
 day scholars, and she would probably have soon obtained 
 a large school, for the children were attached to her and 
 the parents pleased with her success as a teacher, but El 
 len had undertaken to assist her, and her passionate temper 
 so often evinced itself, that both parents and children were 
 displeased, and the school was soon broken up. 
 19*
 
 222 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 " And what does Ellen do ?" I asked. 
 
 " Assist her sister in the work when she can," replied 
 Mrs. Melville, from whom I had heard these things. " But I 
 fear," she added, " that she much more frequently hinders 
 than assists her. Indeed, Mary would scarce have to con 
 tend with any difficulty but for Ellen, for many would be 
 glad to have her in their families, could she be persuaded 
 to leave that little termagant." 
 
 " Poor Ellen !" said I, " the bad name which she con 
 tracted in childhood cleaves to her, when perhaps she 
 may be greatly changed." 
 
 " Not if we are to trust the report of. Mrs. Maclean, with 
 whom they board. She tells sad tales of Ellen's irritabil 
 ity and Mary's long-suffering. To be sure, we are likely 
 to hear the worst of the case from her, for, though an up 
 right woman, she is irritable herself and very positive, and 
 I dare say she and Ellen have had many quarrels." 
 
 My first visit in H. was to these children, for children 
 they still were, though thus thrown on the world to provide 
 for themselves, Mary being little more than fifteen and El 
 len not yet thirteen. The room in which I found them was 
 small, but Mr. Villars had seen it comfortably furnished 
 before he left them, and it was neatly kept. Their cloth 
 ing too was comfortable and neat, though very plain. But 
 there was on Ellen's countenance an expression of sullen 
 gloom, and on Mary's, of sweet, yet sad resignation, which 
 was more distressing to me than even an appearance of 
 want would have been, because it was a stronger evidence 
 of unhappiness. Poverty cheerfully borne is but a slight 
 evil in comparison with a repining temper. But I have 
 learned, since that time, much more of Mary and Ellen 
 than was then known to Mrs. Melville or any other person, 
 and I will now tell their story from the time of their father's 
 death, without interrupting the narrative to explain to you 
 how I heard this or that particular.
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 223 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ORPHANS. 
 
 MARY, I have already said, had nursed her father through 
 his long, tedious illness. She had seen him grow weaker 
 and weaker, and she was therefore in some degree pre 
 pared to see him die. But with Ellen it was very differ, 
 ent. Mary always tried to save her pain. She would not 
 let her spend much time in the sick-room ; and indeed, though 
 Mr. Leslie was a very fond father, and was always glad to 
 see Ellen, he never wished her to remain long, for, if 
 she thought him very ill, she would weep so passionately 
 that it agitated him, and if she thought him better, she 
 would be very noisy in her gladness. Then, if she at 
 tempted to do any thing for him, she would move in such 
 a hurried manner, that it was awkwardly done, if she suc 
 ceeded in doing it at all. All this proceeded from Ellen's 
 never having learned in any way to control her feelings. It 
 was love for her father which made Ellen weep or laugh, 
 and caused her to move in haste when she was told to hand 
 him any thing ; but Mary loved her father quite as well as 
 Ellen, and when she saw him suffering, tears would often 
 stream down her cheeks, yet she would keep down every 
 sound which could call his attention to her sorrows. If 
 he was more comfortable, you might tell it as soon as you 
 entered the room by the bright smile upon her face, yet 
 she never disturbed his repose by loud talking and laugh 
 ing, and though delighted when called on to serve him, she 
 knew, that really to serve him, she must move very quiet 
 ly. This was what is called self-control, and without it 
 let me tell you, my young friends, that however kind your 
 feelings may be, however good your intentions, you will 
 never make yourselves either useful or agreeable to others. 
 Poor Ellen ! she had it not she had never learned to con 
 trol either her temper or her feelings, and you will see how 
 sadly she suffered in consequence. 
 
 I have told you that Mary, from being much with her
 
 224 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 father, was in some degree prepared for his death, while to 
 Ellen it was quite unexpected. I need not tell you that 
 to both of them it was a very sad event, the youngest of 
 you can feel how very sorrowful it would be to part with 
 the father who has played with and patted you, who has 
 nursed you in sickness, and taken care of you in health, 
 and been kind and loving to you always, to part with him, 
 not for a day, or a week, or a month, or a year, but for 
 as long as you live, not to have him go where, though 
 you cannot see him, you may hear from him and know that 
 he is well and happy, and still cares for you, but to have 
 him lie down in the grave, the still grave, from which no 
 voice of love can come to you. But perhaps, if you were 
 obliged to part with your father, you would have a tender mo 
 ther left to sooth you and take care of you ; but Mary and El 
 len Leslie had not this comfort, and when they saw their father 
 carried out in his coffin, they might have felt that, except their 
 kind Uncle Villars, there was no one who would care very 
 much if they were laid alongside of him. As you grow older 
 you will discover that persons who grieve together,who sorrow 
 for the same things, love each other far more dearly than those 
 who are only glad together. I cannot very well explain 
 to you why this is, but we all feel it, and Mary and Ellen 
 Leslie felt it, as they lay the night after the funeral folded 
 in each other's arms, helpless, and but for one kind heart, 
 friendless orphans. 
 
 Yet even then poor Ellen had a grief which was all her 
 own. " Oh, Mary ! you were never in a passion with poor 
 papa, and said angry words to him and grieved him. Oh, 
 dear Mary ! do you think he remembers them now ?" 
 
 Dear children who read this little book, hear me and for 
 get not my words, this is the bitterest grief of all, to feel 
 that you have given pain to that kind heart which is gone 
 from you, which never can come back to hear your repent 
 ance or forgive your injustice. Save yourself from such 
 sorrow by kindness and gentleness to your friends, and obe 
 dience to your parents while they are with you. 
 
 Mr. Villars soon removed these children from their now 
 sad home to his smaller and humbler, but more cheerful res 
 idence.. Mr. Villars had never been engaged in any business. 
 His property was small, and while his wealthier friend and 
 brother-in-law, Mr. Leslie, had surrounded his family with
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 225 
 
 elegancies and luxuries, he had been obliged to content 
 himself with comforts. I say obliged to content himself, but 
 I do not know that Mr. Villars ever desired more. Indeed, 
 I should have thought him an unreasonable man if he had, 
 every thing around him was so neat, so perfectly com 
 fortable, and all was kept in order so quietly by the very 
 best old housekeeper in the country, who had lived with 
 him ever since his wife's death, and who thoroughly under 
 stood his ways. It was no slight praise to good old Mrs. 
 Merrill, his housekeeper, to say that she understood Mr. 
 Villars' ways, for I assure you they were by no means so 
 easy to understand as those of most people. Mr. Villars 
 had lived so long alone, with nobody's tastes to consult but 
 his own, that he had acquired all the set habits which peo 
 ple generally suppose to belong only to an old bachelor. 
 He was thought very whimsical, and certainly often did 
 things which to the rest of the world seemed very odd ; and 
 though, when he gave his reasons, every one was compelled 
 to acknowledge them to be very good, they were often such 
 as would have been thought of by few but himself. Mrs. 
 Merrill was a very kind woman, and received Mary and El 
 len with great tenderness, but she too had 'her oddities as 
 well as Mr. Villars. Like most persons who have had little to 
 do with children, she was constantly afraid of their getting 
 into some trouble or mischief, and she watched these girls, 
 the youngest of whom was then twelve years old, with as 
 much care as if they were only four or five. Even Mary felt 
 this unusual degree of attention to be an unpleasant re 
 straint, but to poor Ellen, who had all her life done just as 
 she pleased, it was perfectly intolerable, and she could not 
 restrain the expression of her impatience under it. 
 
 " Be very careful of the light, Miss Mary, and do not put 
 it so near the curtains, my dear," said Mrs. Merrill, on the 
 second evening that Mary and Ellen Leslie had passed in 
 their new home, as she was giving them their night lamp, 
 after they had said good- night to their uncle. 
 
 " I will be very careful, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary with a 
 smile. 
 
 " And Miss Ellen, I am busy just now and cannot go with 
 you to your room, but your sister will untie your clothes, 
 I dare say, if you ask her kindly, and I will come by-and- 
 by, and see that they are nicely folded and put away."
 
 226 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 "I always fold my clothes myself," was the somewhat 
 ungracious reply to the good woman's well-meant offer. 
 
 As the sisters entered their room Ellen shot the bolt of 
 her door, exclaiming, " There, we are safe from that teasing 
 Mrs. Merrill !" 
 
 " Oh, Ellen ! she is very kind, and we must not forget, 
 my dear sister, that there are not many in the world now, 
 who take interest enough in us to care what we do." Ellen 
 was softened and went tearfully to bed. Mary soon fol 
 lowed her, and they were just comfortably arranged when 
 some one tried to enter, and finding the door bolted, tapped. 
 
 " Who is that ?" exclaimed Ellen impatiently. 
 
 " It is only I, Miss Ellen," answered Mrs. Merrill, " I 
 have come to put the light out and cover you up nicely." 
 
 " The light is out and we are covered," was the peevish 
 reply which arose above Mary's " Thank you, Mrs. Merrill, 
 we are in bed already." 
 
 " Oh, Ellen ! how could you speak so angrily, and hurt 
 the kind old woman's feelings." Ellen could not bear to 
 hurt anybody's feelings, and the next moment she was out 
 of bed, had unbolted the door, and was running barefooted 
 through the hall, calling to Mrs. Merrill. Mrs. Merrill was 
 half way down stairs, but she came back, hurried and 
 alarmed, exclaiming breathlessly, " What is the matter, my 
 dear, what is the matter ?" 
 
 " Nothing, ma'am," said Ellen very respectfully and 
 penitently, " except that Mary said that I had hurt your 
 feelings, and I am very sorry for it. I only meant to say 
 we were in bed already." 
 
 " Hurt my feelings oh dear, no ! poor child ! and did 
 she make you get up for that," putting her hand kindly 
 on Ellen's head as she spoke " oh no ! you did not hurt 
 my feelings I never mind what children say." 
 
 Ellen flirted off and jumped into bed more angry than ever, 
 that Mrs. Merrill should have thought Mary had made her 
 get up to speak to her, and that she should think her of so 
 little consequence as not to mind what she said.
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 227 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN UNRULY SPIRIT. 
 
 WE cannot give an account of half the disputes between 
 Mrs. Merrill and Ellen which were generally reported to 
 Mr. Villars by both parties, until he was ready to go any 
 where from his hitherto quiet home, in search of peace. 
 And yet, when the difficulties in which he had become in 
 volved through Mr. Leslie began first to be perceived, and 
 Mr. Villars to fear that he must leave his home, it seemed 
 dearer to him than ever. Besides, he would say to him 
 self, as he sat thinking over the threatened changes What 
 is to become of these poor children and my old servants 
 and Mrs. Merrill good Mrs. Merrill who, I am sure, 
 never expected to leave me, and is now too old to look out 
 new friends ? Distressed by such thoughts, it is no wonder 
 if Mr. Villars looked sad, and sat silent for hours together, 
 sometimes looking out of a window sometimes turning his 
 eyes upon a book which he generally held in his hand, as an 
 excuse for not talking ; though it was easy to see that he 
 was not reading, or if he was, it must be the same page, over 
 and over again, as he never turned a leaf. Mary had no 
 ticed all this, and it grieved her greatly, for except Ellen, there 
 was no one now in the world whom she loved half so well as 
 her Uncle Villars. She tried at first to amuse him by talking 
 to him ; but finding that, though he always answered her kind- 
 ly, he would at such times soon leave the parlor where they 
 were seated, and go, either to his own room or to the library, 
 she determined not again to disturb him when he seemed so 
 thoughtful. But though Mary ceased to talk to her Uncle 
 Villars, she could not cease to observe him and to wish that 
 she knew the cause of his sadness. This cause she at last 
 thought she had discovered in the differences of Ellen and 
 Mrs. Merrill. Vainly did poor Mary try to accommodate 
 these differences, her efforts generally ended in making both 
 of the disputants displeased with her. It must not be 
 thought that Mrs. Merrill was cross and ill-tempered. On 
 the contrary, all her difficulties with Ellen arose from her
 
 228 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 desire to do what was kind and right by an orphan girl 
 placed in her charge, for Mr. Villars before/ he brought his 
 nieces home had said, " There will of course, Mrs. Merrill, 
 be many things in which these girls will require the atten 
 tion of a woman to their conduct and their comforts. In 
 these things I know I may trust to your goodness," and 
 Mrs. Merrill was determined his trust should not be disap 
 pointed. 
 
 Mary and Ellen had walked out together one after 
 noon, and when they returned, laid their bonnets carelessly 
 upon the table in the parlor. There they remained, till 
 Mrs. Merrill came in to see the table prepared for tea. 
 " Miss Mary, Miss Ellen, why, here are your .new crape 
 bonnets. You should always put them away as soon as 
 you come in ; crape is very expensive, my dears, and very 
 easily injured." 
 
 Mary rose and removed the bonnets from the table. El 
 len remained seated "with her head bent over a piece of pa 
 per, on which she seemed to be drawing. 
 
 " Miss Ellen," said Mrs. Merrill, " did you hear what 1 
 said ?" 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Merrill, I heard you." 
 
 " f-will put both bonnets away, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary; 
 " I always put Ellen's away for her." 
 
 "Well, my dear Miss Mary, that may be very kindly 
 meant in you, but it would be far better that your sister 
 should learn to do without you." 
 
 Ellen did not even look up Mary moved towards the 
 door, with the hope that if the bonnet was once out of sight 
 all would be quiet, but Mrs. Merrill saw the movement, and 
 irritated by Ellen's disregard of what she said, she ex 
 claimed, " Stop, Miss Mary j I am sorry to find fault with 
 you, who are generally so good, but I do not think it right 
 in you to interfere, when I would have your sister learn to 
 wait on herself. I am sure it is for her own good. I am 
 sure it is not for my sake I take the trouble." 
 
 Mary looked earnestly at Ellen, but the head was perse- 
 veringly bent down, and except that her face had become 
 quite red and her pencil moved very fast, any one might have 
 supposed that she had not heard a word of what was pass 
 ing. There stood Mary, with a bonnet in each hand, per 
 fectly irresolute, afraid to speak to Ellen lest she should
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 229 
 
 cause her to say something saucy afraid to oppose Mrs. 
 Merrill, who it was evident was now very determined. At 
 length she ventured to say, " Ellen is busy drawing, Mrs. 
 Merrill 3 ' 
 
 Before she could add another word, Ellen, who scorned 
 to offer any apology for her inattention to Mrs. Merrill's 
 wishes, threw aside the paper and pencil, saying, " I am not 
 busy at all I was only making marks on the paper, Mary." 
 
 " I knew it knew it," said Mrs. Merrill ; " you were on 
 ly making marks to show me that you did not care for me." 
 
 " Give me that bonnet, Miss Mary," taking Ellen's from 
 her as she spoke, and laying it again on the table, on which 
 in the mean time she had arranged every thing for tea. 
 " There let it lie there till Mr. Villars comes in. I will see 
 if he thinks that a proper place for a young lady's bonnet." 
 
 Ellen smiled scornfully. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary, with tears in her eyes, 
 " do not plague poor Uncle Villars about it." 
 
 " 1 assure you, Miss Mary Leslie, I am not the one to 
 plague your Uncle Villars. Many a year I have lived 
 with him, and a quiet home we have both had of it till now, 
 and the same will he say, I will be bound !" 
 
 " Ellen, dear Ellen, I am sure you would not do any 
 thing to worry our good, kind Uncle Villars ; come, dear 
 Ellen, and take your bonnet up stairs." 
 
 " Mary, I wish you would let me.and my bonnet alone. 
 I did not ask you to take it up." 
 
 " Well but, Ellen, poor Uncle Villars looks so sad al 
 ready. Do not be obstinate, dear Ellen." 
 
 " I am not going to say or do any thing to Uncle Villars, 
 Mary, and I think it's very hard if I am to be blamed for 
 every thing even for his looking sad ; but nobody ever 
 finds fault with me that you do not take their part." 
 
 " Oh, Ellen" but Ellen turned away, and Mary with a 
 heavy heart walked off" with her own bonnet as she saw 
 her Uncle Villars entering. Now, any one who has read 
 this scene will perceive that Mrs. Merrill, although she 
 was right in the thing itself which she would have had 
 Ellen do, was very wrong in her manner of enforcing it. 
 The only right way to govern any one is by giving them 
 confidence in your kindly feelings towards them by love. 
 Now, Ellen was a spoiled child, and could not have confi- 
 20
 
 230 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 dence in the kindly feelings of any one who thwarted her. 
 Mr. Villars saw all this, and therefore he had great pa 
 tience with Ellen, and generally soothed her into some 
 concession to Mrs. Merrill; very little would satisfy her 
 kind spirit ; and so the storm would for the time pass over. 
 But these storms so frequently returned, that Mr. Villars 
 felt, unless something could be done to arouse Ellen's own 
 mind to a conviction of the evil of her temper and a deter 
 mined effort to subdue it, she must always be unhappy 
 herself, and the cause of unhappiness to others. As Mr. 
 Villars became more interested in Ellen, as it was natural 
 he should do from feeling that she was now wholly depend 
 ent on him, his anxiety on this subject increased, and he 
 often found himself imagining different methods for cor 
 recting her faults. 
 
 One of Ellen's bad habits, and that which perhaps most 
 materially interfered with Mrs. Merrill's comfort, was late 
 sleeping, or rather lying in bed, for Ellen was in reality 
 not asleep for an hour before Mary could induce her to 
 rise, but Ellen said if she was not asleep, neither was 
 she wide awake. You may wonder that this practice 
 should have interfered with Mrs. Merrill's comfort, as by 
 keeping Ellen out of the way it would seem rather to promote 
 her quiet ; but Mrs. Merrill prided herself on her orderly 
 housekeeping, and while she was too" kind to let Ellen go 
 without her breakfast, she was greatly annoyed at having 
 to keep the table waiting for her. Mary would have taken 
 some breakfast to her sister in their room, and so have ob 
 viated the difficulty ; but this Mrs. Merrill would on no ac 
 count permit, lest the carpet or the bedclothes should be 
 slopped with tea or greased with butter. A few mornings 
 after the scene with the bonnet, Mary having risen as 
 usual and dressed herself, began her efforts to arouse 
 Ellen. 
 
 " Ellen wake, Ellen I hear Uncle Villars moving about 
 in his room." 
 
 Ellen, without speaking or opening her eyes, turned over 
 and covered herself up more closely. 
 
 Mary spoke again, " Ellen Uncle Villars has gone 
 down stairs he will ring the bell for breakfast pres 
 ently." 
 
 Ellen did not stir.
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 231 
 
 Mary touched her, put her arm around her and tried to 
 raise her; Ellen flounced off to the other side of the bed, 
 exclaiming, " Mary, let me alone." 
 
 " Oh, Ellen, jump up there's the breakfast bell you 
 know nothing puts Mrs. Merrill so much out of sorts as our 
 being too late to breakfast with Uncle Villars." 
 
 " I do not care for Mrs. Merrill's being out of sorts 
 cross old woman; she might just as well let me have my 
 breakfast up here as not. I will lie half an hour longer just 
 to spite her." 
 
 " But, Ellen, Uncle Villars" 
 
 ' Uncle Villars does not care a pin about my getting up, 
 if he only has you to sit by him; you know that as well 
 as I do." 
 
 " Well, I care, Ellen" 
 
 " Oh do, Mary go, and eat your breakfast, and let me 
 alone." 
 
 Another ring of the breakfast bell hurried Mary off, ex 
 claiming, " Make haste, Ellen, and you may get down yet 
 before we are done I will eat very slowly." 
 
 The affectionate kiss with which Mr. Villars saluted 
 Mary was followed by the question, " Where is Ellen ?" 
 
 " Miss Ellen is not awake yet, I suppose, Miss Mary." 
 
 Mary at that moment heard Ellen's step on the floor 
 above, and answered quickly, " Oh, yes, Mrs. Merrill, she 
 is awake and up." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Villars with a good-humored smile, 
 " if she is up, we may hope she will soon be down." 
 
 Mary did hope so, and she seated herself cheerfully by 
 her Uncle Villars, while Mrs. Merrill poured out coffee. 
 The nice hot cakes and Uncle Villars' pleasant chat made 
 Mary quite forget her promise to eat slowly, until just as 
 she was concluding her breakfast, Mrs. Merrill, approach 
 ing the door, said, " Your sister stays so long, Miss Mary, 
 I will go and see if she wants any thing." 
 
 " I will go, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary, starting up; but 
 it was too late, and she seated herself again, exclaiming, 
 " Oh ! I am so sorry." 
 
 " Poor child," said Mr. Villars, " you look as much 
 frightened as if you were afraid that Ellen would be 
 beaten. Mrs. Merrill may scold a little, but cheer up, I 
 am sure she would not hurt Ellen for the world."
 
 232 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 " Oh no, Uncle Villars, I know she would not ; it was 
 not that which made me feel sorry." 
 
 " What was it then, child ?" 
 
 Mary looked down and colored as she said, " Ellen is 
 not used to being crossed at all, you know, Uncle Villars, 
 and Mrs. Merrill is not used to Ellen's ways, and so they 
 do not understand each other ; and and I am sure when 
 they come to you, Uncle Villars, it must worry you who 
 always lived so quietly before we came." 
 
 Mr. Villars did not see exactly what Mary was coming 
 to, but he answered, " It has disturbed me, my dear, very 
 much, I acknowledge, but more for Ellen's sake than my 
 own." 
 
 " I have seen, Uncle Villars, how very badly you felt 
 about it ; and I have been thinking perhaps you had 
 better send us away." 
 
 Mary gave this advice slowly and hesitatingly, and as 
 she looked up upon concluding it, her eyes were full of 
 tears ; for Mary loved her Uncle Villars dearly, and she 
 was old enough to know something of her own and Ellen's 
 situation, and to feel how sad it would be for them to be 
 sent away from the house of their best friend to live 
 among strangers. Mr. Villars saw the tears in Mary's 
 eyes, and he understood all her tender and generous 
 thoughts, and drawing her to him he laid her head on his 
 shoulder, and putting her hair aside, kissed her forehead, 
 calling her, " Dear child dear child." He was silent a 
 moment, and any one who had looked closely at him would 
 have seen that his own eyes glistened ; then he added, " It 
 is one of my chief sorrows, Mary, that we shall be obliged 
 " to part ; but not for the reason you think not on poor 
 Ellen's account though I sometimes hope it may be the 
 cause of good to her" 
 
 At this moment the parlor door was thrown open, and 
 Ellen entered hastily. She was followed by Mrs. Merrill, 
 neither of them wearing very placid faces. Mr. Villars, 
 not desiring to hear the complaints on either side, rose 
 from table, and still holding Mary's hand, said, as he gave 
 Ellen his morning kiss, " Eat your breakfast, my dear, 
 and then come to the library ; you will find Mary there, 
 and I have something to tell you." 

 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 233 
 
 CHAPTER. V. 
 
 A SURPRISE. 
 
 WHEN Ellen came into the library, she was surprised to 
 see how very grave her uncle Villars looked. She turned 
 her eyes on Mary, and saw that she had been weeping. 
 Ellen would have asked what was the matter, but she was 
 afraid that it was something connected with her and her 
 wrong doings, and she thought it the safest course to be si 
 lent. Mr. Villars did not leave her long in doubt. Draw 
 ing her to him, he said, " I see, Ellen, that you are anxious 
 to know what has distressed Mary so much ; it is the 
 thought of parting with her old uncle for, Ellen, my dear 
 child, I shall have to part with you both." 
 
 Before we attempt to describe Ellen's emotions, we must, 
 to make them understood, tell our readers that Mrs. Merrill 
 had more than once, when very much provoked by Ellen, 
 hinted her conviction that Mr. Villars would not long be 
 able.to endure such an unquiet house that he would cer 
 tainly be obliged to send his nieces out to board, and that 
 she doubted not people might be found able to curb the most 
 unruly spirit. On such occasions, Ellen, being angry too, 
 had very valorously declared, that she was ready and wil 
 ling to go anywhere to get rid of Mrs. Merrill. But we 
 regard things very differently when they are only talked 
 about or threatened, and when they actually come. Ellen 
 felt now that she was neither ready nor willing to go. 
 This, however, she was too proud to acknowledge. Tears 
 rushed to her eyes, but she kept them back, and would 
 have answered boldly, perhaps saucily ; but as she raised 
 her head, she again saw Mary's sad face, and the thought 
 that her sister was to suffer for her fault, subdued her 
 spirit. Bursting into tears, she wept for a minute without 
 speaking. Mr. Villars passed his hand kindly over her 
 head, saying gently, " Poor little girl ! poor little girl !" 
 Encouraged by this kindness, she at length exclaimed, 
 though sobs still impeded her utterance, " Please, Uncle 
 20*
 
 234 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 Villars, let Mary stay don't send Mary away I'm sure 
 she is good I can't help my bad temper I try to do right 
 and if Mrs. Merrill would only let me alone, I am sure 
 I would not trouble her ; but send me away I don't mind 
 going I shall be very glad to go," here Ellen's pride and 
 anger were again conquering her better feelings, " yes, 
 I shall be very glad to go I don't want to stay anywhere 
 with people that don't like me" again Ellen raised her 
 head stiffly, and again she saw Mary, whose tears were now 
 streaming " but oh ! Uncle Villars, let Mary stay I 
 know you love Mary, and she will always be good." 
 
 Mr. Villars had not interrupted Ellen. At first he was 
 too much surprised at the feelings she expressed to do so, 
 and then he continued silent, because he desired to hear all 
 she had to say. When she stopped speaking, he said, 
 " Ellen, do you suppose that I would send either of you 
 away if I could help it ? You are my children, now," and 
 putting out his hand for Mary, he clasped both the weeping 
 girls in his arms, " both my children, and I love you both; 
 but some of my property, as well as all your father's, has 
 gone to pay his debts. They were honest debts, my dear 
 children, and the people to whom they were owed wanted 
 their money, and we must not regret that they have got it ; 
 but we are poor now, and we cannot continue to live as.we 
 have done. I must soon leave you to go on a journey to a 
 distant place, with the hope of recovering some money which 
 is due to your father's estate. I know not how long I may 
 be gone ; and even when I return I may not be able to 
 come back to my old home, but may be obliged to look out 
 some cheap country place where I can board for little mo 
 ney. To this place I shall not take you with me. I have 
 good reasons for not doing so. Listen to me, and I will try 
 to make you understand these reasons. I am now an old 
 man, and it is very probable that I may not live many 
 years. I once hoped that when I died I should be able to 
 leave you sufficient property to support you in the way in 
 which you have been accustomed to live ; but this, I now 
 fear, cannot be. You will be obliged to do something by 
 which you may make money to assist in supporting your- 
 selves. Many women, you know, support themselves en 
 tirely by their own work. Do you remember the young 
 girl who came to make your mourning ? She not only
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 235 
 
 supplies her own wants, but those of an infirm mother, by 
 her work." 
 
 " And must we go and hire ourselves out to people to 
 sew for them as she does ?" asked Ellen, with a heightened 
 color and a curling lip. 
 
 " No, my dear Ellen, you could not do that, even if I 
 wished it. Miss Fenner has been taught to make dresses, 
 she learned it as a trade, just as a shoemaker learns to 
 make shoes or a carpenter to build houses. You have 
 never learned it, and I fear nobody would hire you." 
 
 Ellen colored now from shame as much as she had just 
 done from pride. 
 
 "But," Mr. Villars proceeded, "there are some things 
 you can do. You can embroider and paint, and do many 
 fancy works for which the rich are ready to pay money. 
 Mary understands music well. She may give lessons in 
 music, and you can both of you teach a few small children. 
 In this way, that is, by doing whatever you can, you may 
 make enough to clothe yourselves. This is all I shall ex 
 pect you to do at present, I will pay all your other ex- 
 penses ; and also I will continue to pay for your French, 
 Italian, and music lessons, till you have become so perfectly 
 acquainted with them as to be able to teach them your 
 selves. You will then be always able to support yourselves 
 respectably, even when you have no Uncle Villars to help 
 you." 
 
 I cannot attempt to describe to you the feelings with 
 which Mary and Ellen had listened to their uncle. They 
 scarcely understood him, and what they did understand 
 seemed like a strange dream. That they, who had always 
 been waited on and surrounded with every luxury, should 
 be obliged to work for money to buy their clothes just 
 like those whom they had been accustomed to call the poor 
 it seemed impossible; and they looked at Mr. Villars 
 steadily, with the hope that they should discover something 
 like a smile something which would make them believe 
 that it was a jest, or, as Ellen said to herself, " just done to 
 frighten me." But on Uncle Villars' face there was no 
 smile all was graver, sadder than usual. He read their 
 thoughts, and, as if to assure them of the truth of what he 
 had said, told them to put on their bonnets and he would 
 show them their future home . They obeyed him, and he took
 
 236 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 them to that small plain house in which I found them living, 
 and introduced them to Mrs. Maclean as her future lodgers. 
 
 The next day Mr. Villars called at Colonel Melville's, 
 and having related to him and Mrs. Melville his arrange 
 ments for Mary and Ellen, asked what they thought of 
 them. They both exclaimed together, " They will never do 
 they will never do !" 
 
 " Why," proceeded Colonel Melville, " here are two 
 children, Villars two mere children the eldest is only 
 fifteen, I believe ;" he paused, and Mr. Villars nodded. 
 " Well, these children, hardly out of the nursery, you are 
 going to " 
 
 Mr. Villars interrupted him somewhat impatiently, " Go 
 ing to place them in a comfortable room, with a kind and 
 honest woman going to demand of them that they shall do 
 just as much as they can to help themselves, and no more ; 
 for all which they cannot do without injury to their health, 
 I will. My children shall not want at least while I live," 
 and the old man's voice trembled. " From you, my friends, 
 I ask that while I am absent you will watch over them. 
 Do not let them want any thing necessary for comfort. I 
 have told them to come to you, Mrs. Melville, for advice 
 in their outlay of money. I would wish their wardrobe to 
 be suited to their circumstances plain, but neat, respecta 
 ble, and comfortable. If it be necessary at any time, Mel 
 ville, advance money for them, and I will repay you." 
 
 " Mr. Villars," said Mrs. Melville, earnestly, " I will do 
 all you wish, if you persist in this plan, but I pray you 
 think better of it. I do not doubt that Mrs. Brown would 
 take Mary into her school as a sub-governess, and her ser 
 vices in this capacity would pay for Ellen's board and tui 
 tion, till she could do something for herself." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Melville, I have not told you all the rea 
 sons which make me prefer my plan to yours fair as 
 yours seems. Poor Ellen's ungoverned temper must be 
 subdued ; but before Mrs. Brown could reduce her into a 
 proper behaved boarding-school Miss, she must inflict and 
 Ellen endure a course of discipline which would break 
 Mary's heart to witness. Now I would give Ellen a dis 
 cipline which she cannot escape from which she will feel 
 it is vain to fret against which will be steady and unyield 
 ing, but never cruel and tyrannical, the discipline which
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 237 
 
 was God's own appointment for man labor and privation. 
 Do you think me right now ?" he asked. 
 
 " I think that you may be. I hope that you are," said 
 Mrs. Melville. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE. 
 
 IN a fortnight Mary and Ellen had taken possession of 
 their neat plain room at Mrs. Maclean's, and Mr. Villars 
 had set out on his journey to some place in Carolina. It 
 was autumn, but. the weather had not yet become at all 
 cold. Mrs. Maclean was a lover of flowers, and the little 
 courtyard before her house was really gay with its golden 
 marigolds, its pink and white artemisias, and its purple 
 dahlias. We have said that Mrs. Maclean was a widow. 
 She had no children of her own, and it was with real pleas 
 ure that she prepared for the reception of these young 
 girls. Mr. Villars had sent over the furniture for their 
 room, and she had begged that they would come over them 
 selves and direct its arrangement. And how patiently did 
 she obey their directions ! Now the bedstead was put be 
 hind the door, because Mary thought that the right place 
 for it ; and now wheeled into the corner near the fireplace, 
 because Ellen thought it would look best there. The look 
 ing-glass was hung first in one pier and then in the other, 
 and then moved back again to the first. In short, every 
 piece of furniture made a journey around the room before 
 it found an abiding place, and yet Mrs'. Maclean showed 
 no weariness or impatience, a fact on which Ellen dilated 
 with great emphasis to her uncle in Mrs. Merrill's pres 
 ence declaring that " Mrs. Maclean was so good-natured, 
 she was sure she should love her dearly." 
 
 When Mr. Villars took the sisters to their home on the 
 evening before he left H., Ellen carried him up to their 
 room explained to him all the advantages of its present 
 arrangement and especially challenged his admiration for 
 the mantelpiece, on which Mrs. Maclean had placed two 
 
 
 
 *
 
 238 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 china mugs filled with her brightest flowers. More pleas 
 ant than all to Mr. Villars, was her satisfaction. While 
 his children smiled so cheerfully and appeared so anima 
 ted, he felt that there was little to regret in their change of 
 circumstances. It was noon the next day before Mr. Vil 
 lars was at leisure to make his farewell visit at Mrs, Ma 
 clean's. As soon as he came within view of the parlor 
 windows, he saw Ellen standing at one of them, looking 
 out. She saw him too, and running out opened the little 
 gate for him. 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Villars, I thought you were never coming, 
 I have been looking for you so long." 
 
 " That was very unprofitable labor, Ellen, for it could 
 not bring me here any sooner. Where is Mary ?" 
 
 " Up stairs in our room come softly, Uncle Villars,'"' 
 here Ellen lowered her voice to a whisper, " come softly, 
 and I do believe you may get close up to her without her 
 knowing it she is so busy sewing." 
 
 Ellen tripped lightly on herself, and Mr. Villars with a 
 smile followed with as quiet a step as possible. They as 
 cended the staircase, the door was opened without the least 
 noise, and Ellen, motioning to her uncle to stand still, stole 
 on towards her sister. Mary sat near the window, but 
 though her face was towards it, she was not looking out. 
 Her head was bent down over a piece of embroidery, and 
 her fingers were moving quickly while she sang in a low 
 suppressed voice to a cheerful tune an old song, the words 
 of which ran thus 
 
 1. 
 
 I will not be a butterfly, 
 
 To sport beneath the summer sky, 
 
 Idly o'er ev'ry flower to roam, 
 
 And droop when winter storms have come. 
 
 2. 
 
 I will not be an ant, to soil 
 
 Myself with low, debasing toil, 
 
 To crawl on earth to yon bright heaven 
 
 No wing upraised, no effort given. 
 
 3. 
 
 But I will be a bee, to sup 
 Pure honey from each flow'ry cup ; 
 Busy and pleased around I'll fly, 
 And treasure win from earth and sky
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 239 
 
 As she finished her song, Ellen, who now stood close be 
 side her, though unperceived, took up the strain and war- 
 bled, 
 
 Busy and pleased around I'll fly, 
 And treasure win from earth and sky. 
 
 " Ah truant !" said Mary, with a smile, " you will not 
 win much treasure, I am afraid. See how much I have 
 done while you have been looking out for Uncle Villars, 
 and all your looking has not brought him." 
 
 " No but if I could only persuade you to take your 
 eyes from your work and just give one glance over your 
 shoulder, he would be here I know; try it, Mary." 
 
 " No, butterfly, I mean to be a bee, and you shall not 
 tempt me to lose time." 
 
 " There, Miss Bee, is that losing time ?" asked Ellen, 
 as, putting a hand on each side of Mary's head, she turned 
 it suddenly round to where Mr. Villars stood, amused by 
 the scene. 
 
 " Why, Uncle Villars I" exclaimed Mary, dropping her 
 work in her surprise and pleasure, and hastening to meet 
 him, " how long have you been there ?" 
 
 "Long enough to hear most of your song, Mary. But 
 what pretty work is this ?" asked Mr. Villars, as he pick 
 ed it up and handed it to her. 
 
 " A cape which Mrs. Melville sent me this morning to 
 embroider for her ; and see, she has sent Ellen some cam 
 bric handkerchiefs to hem." 
 
 " And how much have you done to them, Ellen ?" 
 
 " I have done half a side to one of them." 
 
 Mr. Villars shook his head, and Ellen coloring, said, 
 " Well, Uncle Villars, I do hate so to hem handkerchiefs ; 
 it is all the same thing over and over again. Now there 
 is some pleasure in embroidering." 
 
 " But my little girl must learn to take pleasure in win 
 ning treasure," said Mr. Villars, pleasantly. 
 
 " I should ,like very well to have the treasure, Uncle 
 Villars, if you mean money, but I do not see much pleas 
 ure in winning it." 
 
 " But I do not mean money only, Ellen, that is the 
 treasure of earth ; but you remember the bee won that of the 
 sky too, and I would have you, my dear child, win the 
 best of all treasures, a disciplined, well-regulated mind and
 
 240 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 heart ; and the surest way to do this, is by steady per- 
 severance in what you know to be right, however disa 
 greeable it may be to you ; and to encourage you, let me 
 tell you that the things you like least will become pleasant 
 to you as soon as you have made up your mind to do them, 
 because they are right." 
 
 This was Mr. Villars' parting lesson to Ellen, for it was 
 soon time for him to be on board the steamboat which was 
 to take him to New York, on his way south. He left them, 
 with many charges that they should write to him at least 
 once a fortnight; and that they should apply, if any diffi 
 culty occurred, to Colonel and Mrs. Melville for advice, 
 and, if necessary, for assistance. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A HOLIDAY. 
 
 " POOR things," said Mrs. Maclean the next morning at 
 the breakfast table, when she saw Ellen's eyes fill with 
 tears at some mention of her Uncle Villars, " Poor things ! 
 it is no wonder you feel bad to part with such a good 
 friend ; but you must cheer up, he will soon be back again ; 
 and now I will tell you what instead of setting down to 
 mope in your room to-day we will just make a holiday of 
 it. I will put my ironing off for once, and we will borrow 
 Deacon Foster's horse and shay the shay will carry us 
 all three easy enough and I will drive you out to my bro 
 ther-in-law's farm. Were you ever there?" 
 
 "No never." 
 
 "Well I can tell you there aint many such farms 
 as Tom Maclean's, and you'll get some of the finest 
 peaches there that you've seen this year. So now I'll 
 go for the horse' and shay, and you can put these cups and 
 saucers in the cupboard for me, and get your bonnets on 
 by the time I come for you." 
 
 Ellen's face brightened with the anticipated delights of 
 the day* a ride of three miles, and then the privilege of 
 sauntering at will through gardens and orchards, of a sunny
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 241 
 
 day in October who can wonder at her enjoyment of the 
 thought ? Even Mary felt that she might take a holiday 
 " for once," as Mrs. Maclean said, without being a butter 
 fly. So the cups were soon put away, and the bonnets tied 
 on, and soon came Deacon Foster's horse and shay, and 
 Mrs. Maclean driving. Mary and Ellen jumped- in, and 
 found, as Mrs. Maclean had told them there would be, plenty 
 of room ; and Mrs. Maclean cheruped to the horse, and 
 away they went not very fast, yet fast enough to get 
 over the three miles in much less time than Mary and El 
 len wished. And yet they could scarcely be sorry when 
 they reached the low, but large stone farmhouse, with its 
 field of clover on one side, in which three or four cows 
 were grazing, and its orchard on the other, where among 
 pear and apple trees they could catch glimpses of the red 
 and yellow peaches which Mrs. Maclean had praised so 
 highly. And Mrs. Tom Maclean, and Susy and Martha 
 Maclean, came to welcome them with such pleasant looks 
 and words, that nothing seemed wanting to their gratifica 
 tion. All the morning they walked about with Susy and 
 Martha for their guides had fruit from the orchard, milk 
 from the dairy, and more flowers from the garden than they 
 could carry home. When called in to dinner they found 
 Mr. Maclean there. He too received them very kindly, 
 and talked of their Uncle Villars, regretting that he had 
 met with any troubles, as he heard he had, and that he 
 should have been obliged to leave his own pleasant home. 
 
 " Mrs. Merrill seems almost broken down about it," con 
 tinued Mr. Maclean ; " and she teld me that you was ago 
 ing to keep a school for young children : now I'm a thinking 
 of sending our Susy and Martha to you for a while. A 
 little more schooling won't do 'em any harm, and they can 
 go in with the market-cart every morning, and come back 
 home in it when market is over. You can help them, ! 
 dare say, and then what they pay will help you and that's 
 what I call right." 
 
 Mary thanked Mr. Maclean, and said she would do her 
 best to " help" his daughters, who smiled at each other, 
 and looked much pleased with the arrangement. 
 
 " Well now," said Mr. Maclean, " I should like to know 
 what you're going to charge ?" 
 
 To this Mary could only answer, whatever bethought right. 
 21
 
 242 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 " That won't do that won't do," said Mr. Maclean ; 
 " you sell the schooling, and I buy it : it is the one that 
 sells that always ought to fix the price." 
 
 "Tom, how you talk," said his wife; "you might as 
 well tell a baby about fixing prices, I dare say. Don't you 
 know what you've paid before for schooling ?" 
 
 "Yes, I paid a dollar a month apiece ; but that wouldn't 
 be fair now for then they went to a man, and only learnt 
 books ; but I guess now they'll find out how to be handy 
 with the needle too, and that's worth as much as book 
 learning to a woman so I think double the old price would 
 be fair now. I'll tell you what, miss," he added, turning 
 to Mary, " to encourage you, I'll make it a dollar a week 
 for the two, and I'll send it in to you every Saturday ; 
 how will that do ?" 
 
 Mary thought it would do very well. Knowing nothing 
 of the labor of teaching, and as little of the value of money, 
 she thought a dollar a week a great sum to be given her. 
 It was really a generous offer in Mr. Maclean, who, being 
 uneducated himself, could not estimate very truly the value 
 of her services in educating his daughters, and who knew, 
 besides, that he could have them taught at some common 
 day-schools for less. 
 
 The happiest day must have an end, and the western sky 
 was still bright with the sun's last beams, when Mary and 
 Ellen alighted at their own door, leaving Mrs. Maclean to 
 drive home the borrowed chaise. 
 
 The next morning Mary awoke very early much earli 
 er than usual, and try as much as she would, she could not 
 sleep again. I have told you that even in her early child 
 hood Mary had been thoughtful, but now you must remem 
 ber she was over fifteen years old, and had already experi 
 enced such changes as might have made a person of much 
 gayer temper grave. But not even these changes had tend 
 ed to sadden Mary so much as Ellen's waywardness had 
 done. The charge which she had received from her dy 
 ing mother Mary never had forgotten, and it had been re 
 cently and forcibly repeated by her father. Though Mr. 
 Leslie did not know himself the extent ,of those losses 
 throueh which his children had been left so very destitute, 
 he knew enough to make him suffer much anxiety about 
 them in his last illness. Especially had he feared for Ellen,
 
 ', ' 
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. I 243 
 
 ~^~ 
 
 so young, so thoughtless, and so arrogant in temperN^ ; 
 To Mary, who was ever at his side, and who showed so 
 much of a woman's care and thoughtfulness that he often 
 forgot she was but a child, these anxious feelings were ex 
 pressed ; and again did she promise to her father, as under 
 like circumstances she had done to her mother, that she 
 would never part from Ellen that she would love her 
 and bear with her take care of her, and if it were neces 
 sary, work for her support, even as her mother would have 
 done had she lived. And faithfully did Mary fulfil her 
 promise of loving Ellen and bearing with her, and pleas 
 ant did she feel it would be to take care of her, and even to 
 Jabor for her. And Ellen loved her sister Mary too, and 
 for her sake would have done almost any thing except con 
 trol her temper, or restrain the expression of any angry or 
 dissatisfied feeling. But it was just this temper and these 
 feelings which gave Mary most pain, and were likely to 
 make her task most difficult. In all which these sisters 
 had to do, they must depend greatly on the kindness and 
 good-will of others. Mary knew this, and she knew too 
 that kindness and good-will were not to be gained by a dis 
 play of passionate, wilful tempers. Especially did Mary 
 dread any thing of this kind in the school they were about 
 to begin, and her morning thoughts the thoughts which 
 would not let her sleep again when once she had awoke 
 were all of how she might most gently, and with the least 
 danger of displeasing Ellen, impress upon her how much 
 patience and self-control would be needed in teaching a set 
 of rude, ignorant children. Before she had come to any 
 decision on this important point, Ellen awoke, and with more 
 animation than she usually evinced at such an early hour, 
 exclaimed, " Why, Mary, not up yet and our school to 
 begin to-day !" 
 
 " But not for three hours yet, Ellen it is only six 
 o'clock." 
 
 " But I thought you were always up at half-past five." 
 " So I am ; but I have been thinking so much about this 
 school this morning that I have forgotten every thing else." 
 " What about it, Mary about what you should teach ?" 
 " No, Ellen not just that ; but I have been thinking 
 how unpleasant and difficult it will be." 
 
 " Do you think so ? I think I shall like it."
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 " So should I, Ellen, if I were sure that the children 
 would all be smart, and pleasant tempered ; but it must be 
 very hard to teach dull children ; and if they are obstinate 
 and ill-tempered we shall be so apt to become impatient 
 with them, and then, you know, all comfort will be at an 
 end." 
 
 " But I don't see why you should think they will be dull ; 
 I am sure Susy and Martha Maclean seemed to be very 
 pleasant children." 
 
 " So they did, but there are four other children, you know, 
 whom Mrs. Maclean has engaged for us, and of whom we 
 know nothing." 
 
 " Well, I dare say they are clever children. For my 
 part I don't think children are ever ill-tempered unless 
 people are cross to them, and if you are afraid that I shall 
 be cross to your scholars, Mary " 
 
 Mary interrupted Ellen's hasty speech, saying in a gen 
 tle tone, " I am afraid, dear Ellen, that our scholars will 
 often tire us and try our patience very much ; but Uncle 
 Villars says that whatever we do, we should do cheer 
 fully, sol will not talk of my fears any more." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. ^ 
 
 THE SCHOOL. 
 
 A WEEK passed away, and nothing occurred in the little 
 school to make Mary think again of her fears. Ellen 
 seemed to like being a teacher ; and if she laughed and 
 talked and played with her pupils a little more than was 
 quite consistent with her new dignity, they liked her all 
 the better for it, and learned, from a wish to please her, 
 more than they would perhaps have done if more con 
 strained. As for Mary, Mrs. Maclean said, " It was just 
 a wonder to see how that young bit of a thing, that was 
 nothing but a child herself, would sit sewing so steady like, 
 and never seem to be thinking of any thing but her work ; 
 and yet if any of the young ones got in a snarl, and Miss <v^ 
 Ellen'e voice only sounded quick like, she was up in a
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 245 
 
 minute, and helped them so quietly along that they hardly 
 knowed that she was a helping till they got through." 
 
 Ellen had even exerted herself to rise early, that she 
 might be ready for her scholars ; but the second Monday 
 morning after the commencement of her labors she seemed 
 to find this an unusually difficult task, and when Mary, 
 who had been some time below stairs, came back to tell her 
 that it was eight o'clock and breakfast was ready, and un 
 less she dressed herself quickly the children would be there 
 before their room was in order, she exclaimed, " Those 
 children ! I am sure I wish I had never seen them or heard 
 of them. It is bad enough to have to teach the stupid things, 
 without being obliged to get up at daybreak for them." 
 
 "Daybreak, Ellen!" said Mary, moving the window- 
 curtain and letting in a stream of sunshine. 
 
 " Well, I don't care what time it is, Mary, it is earlier 
 than I choose to get up, and earlier than I would get up, if 
 it was not for them ; and there would be some comfort in it 
 if one thought they would ever learn any thing : but for 
 such a stupid set !" 
 
 " Stupid, Ellen ! why Mrs. Maclean and I have just 
 been saying what bright intelligent children they were." 
 
 " Well," said Ellen, who had now talked herself into a 
 really angry mood, " I suppose they do not learn because 
 they have such a stupid teacher in me. I dare say if you 
 will hear their lessons, they will do better." 
 
 " No, Ellen, I think they do learn learn more with 
 you than they would do with a grave, quiet person like 
 me." 
 
 " I do think, Mary, you are the most contradictory per 
 son I ever saw in my life. When I hoped the children 
 might be clever, you were sure they would be stupid ; and 
 now that I think them stupid, you have found out that they 
 are wonderfully intelligent." 
 
 Mary finding that whatever she said tended only to in 
 crease Ellen's displeasure, did not remind her that the 
 fears she had expressed had been quite as much of the im 
 patience of the teacher as of the stupidity of the scholars. 
 
 Mrs. Maclean's call to breakfast on this morning was 
 quickly and gladly obeyed by Mary, for she thought 
 Ellen's irritation would subside sooner if she was alone. 
 At any rate, thought Mary, when Ellen comes to say her 
 
 2P
 
 246 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 prayers, her ill-humor will pass away. With this hope 
 she went to the breakfast table, and when Ellen followed, 
 received her so cheerfully, that her frowns soon began to 
 wear away and the tones of her voice to grow more 
 pleasant. They had not yet risen from the table when 
 Anna Melville rushed in, sparkling with joyous expec 
 tation. 
 
 " Mary and Ellen, papa is going to carry us to see the 
 caravan of animals at N., and if you were not going to 
 have school to-day, he would carry you with us Must 
 you have school ? Can't you manage so as to go ?" 
 
 Mary was delighted at the prospect of such a pleasure 
 for Ellen, and she answered quickly, " We cannot both go, 
 Anna but Ellen can." 
 
 "I am sure, Mary, I don't see how I can go any more 
 than you. Any one would think, to hear you, that I did 
 nothing at all in the school." 
 
 " You know, Ellen, that I cannot mean that, for you do 
 a great deal more than I, but I can take your place and 
 give you a holiday for one day." 
 
 " Yes, and have Uncle Villars think when he comes back 
 again that I have done nothing but amuse myself while 
 you were at work. I thank you, Anna but I cannot go 
 to see caravans. I must stay and keep school." 
 
 Anna stood irresolute. 
 
 " Mary, cannot you go ?" said she at last. 
 
 " Thank you, Anna," said Mary, " but I should not en 
 joy it unless Ellen could go too." 
 
 " Mary, I beg you will not stay at home on my ac 
 count." 
 
 Anna saw that neither of the sisters was going, and she 
 bade them good morning, and left the house with a much 
 more serious face and more sedate step than that with 
 which she entered it, for ill-humor has the property of 
 making all unhappy who come within its reach. As 
 Anna opened the door, Mr. Maclean's market-cart drove 
 up with Susy and Martha. The children stood for a mo 
 ment, after leaving the cart, to look at her, and before she 
 was out of hearing Ellen was calling from the house, 
 " Susy, Martha, if you stand all day staring there I might 
 as well have pleased myself by going with Anna Melville, 
 as have stayed at home to teach you."
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 247 
 
 " Did you want to go, Miss Ellen ?" 
 
 " That is of rio consequence," said Ellen, " for if I want 
 ed to go ever so much I could not." 
 
 " Oh yes but you could," said the kind-hearted girls ; 
 " now do go, and we'll get our lessons just the same, and say 
 them all to you to-morrow." 
 
 " That may suit you just as well, but your father would 
 hardly be willing to pay his money if you were left to get 
 your lessons by yourselves." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure my papa wouldn't mind about it." 
 
 Ellen impatiently pushed the child nearest to her into 
 the room, saying, " I do wish you would go to your lessons, 
 and hush talking about what does not concern you !" 
 
 It will readily be believed that Mary had to help Ellen 
 and the children through many a " snarl," to borrow Mrs. 
 Maclean's significant, though not very elegant expression, 
 on this day. But the evil did not stop there. Three of 
 the girls were sent home weeping and indignant, to com 
 plain that Ellen Leslie had called them by some unkind or 
 disgraceful epithet. These girls brought back the next 
 morning messages from their parents, intimating that they 
 were sent to school to Mary Leslie, and that it was hoped 
 she would teach them herself. Poor Mary ! she scarce 
 knew how to meet this difficulty. To comply with the re 
 quest would grievously wound and displease Ellen, who 
 had really, till this unlucky day, given no just cause of 
 complaint ; not to comply with it would as certainly dis 
 please several of those on whose support her school de 
 pended. But better lose their support better lose any 
 thing, Mary said to herself, than create unkind feelings be 
 tween Ellen and myself. So she tried to pacify the 
 children and satisfy the parents without making any 
 change in the arrangements of the school. Perhaps, had 
 Ellen seconded her efforts, she would have succeeded, but 
 Ellen could not forget the mortification she had received 
 from this affair, and scarce a day passed that she did not 
 by some petulant word or action increase the dissatisfaction 
 of her pupils or their parents, till one by one they were 
 withdrawn. With them went the most certain profits of 
 the sisters ; yet it was with real satisfaction that Mary saw 
 the door close upon the last scholar who left them, for she 
 hoped now to see Ellen again cheerful and pleased as when
 
 248 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 they first came to Mrs. Maclean's. She turned smilingly 
 towards her from the window at which she was standing, to 
 express her satisfaction, and was surprised to find her weep 
 ing bitterly. 
 
 " Ellen, my own dear little sister, what is the matter ? 
 Surely you are not sorry that those children are gone who 
 have plagued you so." 
 
 " No, Mary, I am not sorry they are gone, but I am sorry 
 that I made them go. I know they all hate me, Mary, and 
 their fathers and mothers hate me." 
 
 " Ellen my dear Ellen people don't hate each other 
 for such little things." 
 
 " Oh yes, Mary I heard the children say they hated 
 
 ' me. Nobody will ever love me, and I can't help it I am 
 
 sure I can't help it ; for I try to be good like you but I 
 
 can't, Mary I can't. I wish I was dead, and buried with 
 
 poor papa and mamma." 
 
 " Ellen my dear Ellen ! this is very wicked and very 
 cruel, Ellen. You know that I love you, Ellen that I love 
 you dearly better than I love any thing else in the world, 
 and yet you want to die and leave me here by myself: 
 what would I do without my own little sister !" Mary's 
 voice became choked, and she too sobbed aloud. Ellen 
 felt then that she had indeed been wicked and cruel to de 
 sire any thing which might grieve this loving sister. From 
 this time she did try, and try successfully, to control her 
 temper towards Mary herself, rarely being betrayed into 
 any petulance towards her ; or, if she were, endeavoring 
 the next moment to atone for it, by double tenderness of 
 manner and speech. But, impressed with the conviction 
 that she was disliked by all others, she became daily more 
 and more irritable towards them, more and more careless 
 and defying in her manner, till she created the very dis 
 like she had at first only" fancied. Naturally affectionate, 
 Ellen could not but suffer under a consciousness of this 
 dislike, and hence the gloomy dissatisfaction which I no 
 ticed in her countenance on my first visit to Mary and her 
 self after my return to H .
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 249 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GREAT TRIALS. 
 
 MR. VILLARS had now been gone six months, and the 
 business which had taken him south, and which he had not 
 supposed would detain him half so long, was not yet com 
 pleted. Colonel Melville heard from him frequently, for 
 to him he expressed all his wishes respecting his children, 
 as he always called Mary and Ellen. Soon after the 
 school was given up, he wrote to ask that Colonel Melville 
 would let him know all he could learn about it, as Mary's 
 account of her reasons for discontinuing her teaching was 
 so confused and imperfect, that he was afraid there was 
 something which she had not liked to tell. Before Colonel 
 Melville had found time to reply to this letter, he received 
 another from Mr. Villars to say that he had already learned 
 all which he had requested him to ascertain, from Ellen, 
 who had ef her own accord written a full statement of the 
 whole business, for fear, as she wrote, that he might blame 
 Mary if he did not know all. " Poor child," Mr. Villars 
 wrote to his friend, " her letter is a very sad one. Few 
 things can be more sad than to see childhood, the brightest 
 and most joyous period, the holiday of our lives, made mis- 
 erable by evil passions. And yet, with all its sadness, El 
 len's letter gave me pleasure, for it shows that she is be 
 ginning to feel the influence of that discipline from which, 
 you know, I hope so much for her. She is beginning to 
 learn the secrets of her own heart to see that from the 
 evil there, arises much of the suffering she endures. She 
 must yet see more of this feel more hopeless, more de 
 spondent learn that there is no rest for her on earth no 
 rest for her anywhere except in making it the most earnest 
 desire of her heart and effort of her life to do right in a 
 perfect willingness, when she has done this, to leave every 
 thing which concerns her to the care of her Heavenly 
 Father, and in such entire trust in that Heavenly Father's 
 goodness, that even when she suffers she shall feel that it is 
 his love which corrects her faults."
 
 250 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 Perhaps you would like to see something of the lettef 
 which made Mr. Villars feel at once so much grieved and 
 so hopeful for poor Ellen. I have it with me, and will ex 
 tract a few sentences from it for your perusal. After giv 
 ing a very fair account of the school, of the pleasure she 
 at first felt in it, of the pains she took to please and improve 
 the children, she relates very truly all which took place on 
 that unlucky Monday morning how reluctant she was to 
 rise how fretted with Mary for trying to persuade her that 
 hings were not so bad as she felt them to be how disap 
 pointed that she could not go with Anna Melville, yet how 
 unwilling to let it appear by her going that she was of no 
 consequence at all, but that Mary could do just as well 
 without her how dissatisfied with herself for all these 
 things how that dissatisfaction made her impatient with the 
 children and how that morning's impatience was deepened 
 into dislike by their resentment their readiness, as she 
 said, to give her up just for one cross word their thinking 
 so much more of Mary, who had never done any thing for 
 them, thau of her who had taken so much trouble with them. 
 After this account Ellen adds, " And so it is always, Uncle 
 Villars everybody loves Mary without her caring for it 
 or trying to make them love her ; and I want them to love 
 me, and do every thing I can to make them love me, and 
 yet they never do, nobody but Mary. Even you, Uncle 
 Villars, though you were always very kind to me, did not 
 love me as you loved Mary. I know it is because she is 
 so good, and I have such a wicked, bad temper. But, 
 Uncle Villars, I cannot help my temper indeed I cannot, 
 for I have tried very often, very often indeed. Many a 
 time I have said to myself, when I got up in the morning 
 I will be good and kind to everybody to-day, and I will not 
 say a cross word, or give an angry look, let them serve me 
 ever so badly, but when people tease and worry me I for 
 get it all. And so now, Uncle Villars, since I cannot help 
 it, I mean to try not to care about it at all not to love 
 anybody except Mary, who loves me so much that I never 
 get angry with her now, and you who were always so kind 
 to me." 
 
 The letter here broke off abruptly, and was continued again 
 several days after in these words : " What I was writing 
 to you the other day, Uncle Villare, made me feel so bad
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 251 
 
 that I had to put down my pen and cry. Since that, I have 
 hardly thought of any thing else, and I am more and more 
 convinced that it all comes from my bad temper ; but that is 
 no comfort, since I cannot help it. I am afraid you will 
 think me very wicked, but I cannot help wishing I was 
 dead. I think, then, when people saw me lying so pale 
 and still, and knew that I could never say an angry word 
 again, they would feel sorry for having been so hard upon 
 me, and they would look kindly at me and speak kindly of 
 me. I think of these things a great deal, but do not tell 
 Mary so, for it would distress her. I am almost sorry for 
 having written all about these feelings to you, Uncle Vil- 
 lars ; but my letter must go now, for it has taken me a 
 great deal of time to write so long a one, and I want you 
 to know all about the school, for fear, as I said before, you 
 should blame Mary." 
 
 About a month after Colonel Melville had received the 
 letters of which I have spoken from Mr. Villars, I met Mrs. 
 Maclean in one of my morning walks. 
 
 " And how are Mary and Ellen Leslie this morning, 
 Mrs, Maclean ?" asked I. 
 
 " Middling, ma'am, middling," replied Mrs. Maclean ; 
 " Miss Mary's looking a little pale, but I think it's trouble 
 more than sickness." 
 
 " Trouble ! why, I hope nothing has happened to disturb 
 her." 
 
 " Nothing more than usual, ma'am ; but that sister of 
 hers is enough to worry out a saint ; and I'm sure that's 
 Miss Mary, if there ever was one." 
 
 " I fear Ellen is no favorite with you, Mrs. Maclean." 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, and she was a very great favorite 
 when first she came to me, for she was a lively, sprightly 
 thing as ever I seed, but when she gets in her tantrums, 
 she's more than mortal flesh can bear." 
 
 " But what do you mean by her tantrums, for I acknowl 
 edge I have never seen any thing in her which did not ap 
 pear to me very excusable in a spoiled child." 
 
 " Well, ma'am, it may be so ; that spoiled child may 
 excuse it all ; but, as I said, it's very hard for them to bear 
 that didn't spoil her. Now, only this morning she asked 
 me quite civil like for some more sugar in her tea ; and I, 
 to be just as civil as she, said, 'Come, help yourself, for I
 
 252 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 am afraid I won't suit you.' Says she, ' I'm sure I'm not 
 so very hard to be suited, and if you don't choose to help 
 me I can go without.' And then I was mad at her per 
 verse ways, and I said, ' Well, and if you can't put out 
 your hand and help yourself, you can go without.' 'Yes,' 
 says she, ' that's a very good excuse to save your sugar.' 
 And then she keeps a-throwing out her insinuations of my 
 stinginess, and how sorry her Uncle Villars would be for 
 boarding them where they couldn't get enough to eat and 
 drink ; till I answered her, and says, ' Well, I'm sure he 
 can't be no sorrier than I, for I would rather eat but one 
 meal a-day in peace and quiet, than to take my good, 
 hearty, three meals a-day with you quarrelling over them.' 
 With that, up she gets, and says, ' I won't take my meals 
 at anybody's table that don't wish me to, and I will never 
 eat another meal at your table if I starve to death ;' and 
 sure enough, off she went up stairs without her breakfast. 
 I shouldn't have minded that much, but poor Miss Mary 
 went without her breakfast too, and had a good cry be 
 sides." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 WHEN I repeated to Mrs. Melville the conversation I 
 had had with Mrs. Maclean, we were just passing in to 
 dinner, and she bade Anna, as soon as we had dined, go 
 over and invite the Leslies to pass the afternoon and eve 
 ning with her ; adding, in a lower tone, to me, that such 
 was Ellen's wilfulness, she would not be at all surprised to 
 hear that she had held her purpose for all day, or even for 
 several days. Anna did not need to be reminded of her 
 errand, but went over to Mrs. Maclean's quite early, and 
 quickly returned, bringing Mary and Ellen along with 
 her. It was now May, and Emma Melville having re 
 ported the spring roses to be in bud, the children soon left 
 the parlor, where Col. and Mrs. Melville and I were seated, 
 and from the windows of which, a few minutes after, we
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 253 
 
 could see them walking around the flower-beds in the gar 
 den, and occasionally stopping to search for, or to commu 
 nicate some new token of the advancing season. Our ob 
 servations on them were interrupted by the sound of the 
 door-bell and the entrance of a servant, who, handing Col. 
 Melville a card and a letter, announced that the gentleman 
 who brought them was waiting to see him in the next 
 room. Col. Melville only glanced at the card, ran his eye 
 hastily over the letter, and handing them both to Mrs. Mel 
 ville, went to meet his visiter. " The Rev. Mr. Wal 
 lace," said Mrs. Melville, as she looked at the card, in a 
 tone which indicated that to her at least he was a stranger. 
 " And the letter," she added, as opening it she looked at 
 once at the name of the writer, " is from Mrs. Herbert." 
 
 " And who is Mrs. Herbert ?" I asked. 
 
 " Did you never hear of her ? She is a sister of Mr. 
 Leslie. I have not seen her since her marriage, fifteen 
 years ago ; but if her maturer years have fulfilled the 
 promise of her early life, she must be excellent indeed." 
 
 " You say you have not seen her in fifteen years ; has 
 she never visited her brother in all that time ?" 
 
 " No she removed on her marriage to the western part 
 of the State of New Yorlf? and as Mr. Herbert was not 
 wealthy, the expense of travelling so far has perhaps had 
 something to do with keeping her away." 
 
 " But Mr. Leslie was long thought a very wealthy man ; 
 did he not assist his sister ?" 
 
 " I have heard that he offered to do so ; but as he had 
 disapproved her marriage with one who had so few worldly 
 advantages to offer as Mr. Herbert, it was probably regard 
 for her husband's feelings which made Mrs. Herbert de 
 cline his aid, replying, as I was told she did, with every 
 expression of grateful affection for her brother, but adding 
 the assurance that they had enough for happiness." After 
 a few minutes' silence Mrs. Melville added : " I doubt not 
 they were very happy, for he seemed worthy of her, and 
 that is, I assure you, high praise. What a blow his death 
 must have been !" 
 
 " His death !" I exclaimed" is he dead ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I thought I had mentioned that she was now a 
 widow : he died about the same time with Mr. Leslie. His 
 death was sudden, and I fear he left her and her three 
 22
 
 254 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 children but illy provided for. Had it been otherwise, she 
 would, I am sure, before this time have endeavored to do 
 something for Mary and Ellen ; for I know that Mr. Villars 
 wrote soon after their father's death, informing her of their 
 entire destitution, and of those embarrassments on his part 
 which would prevent his doing all he wished for them." 
 
 Mrs. Melville had scarcely ceased speaking, when the 
 door between the two parlors was opened, and Mr. Melville 
 entered, accompanied by a very benevolent-looking old 
 gentleman, whom he introduced as Mr. Wallace, saying, 
 as he presented him to Mrs. Melville, that he was a near 
 neighbor of her old friend Mrs. Herbert, of whom he could 
 give her very late intelligence, as he had been only about 
 a fortnight from home. 
 
 " I have just been speaking of Mrs. Herbert," said Mrs. 
 Melville, addressing herself to Mr. Wallace, " and though 
 it has been fifteen years since we met, there are few of 
 whom I retain a more admiring and pleasant remembrance. 
 I was indeed grieved when I heard of Mr. Herbert's 
 death." 
 
 " It was a terrible blow," said Mr. Wallace, " the more 
 terrible from being so sudden ; but Mrs. Herbert is a 
 mourner from a yet more recent affliction the death of 
 her eldest child and only daughter." 
 
 " Indeed ! such repeated and heavy strokes how has 
 she borne up under them ?" 
 
 " As one who, though a devoted wife and mother, is like 
 wise a devoted Christian. The strokes have been indeed 
 as you say, heavy, but she has bowed to them, and kissed 
 the rod which she knew was in a Father's hand. You who 
 remember her, madam, will not be surprised to learn that 
 no selfish sorrow has made her forgetful of her remaining 
 duties." 
 
 " She has yet two children, I believe," said Mrs. Mel 
 ville. 
 
 " Yes two fine boys, whose education is scarcely com 
 menced yet, as the eldest is but thirteen years old. Her or 
 phan and destitute nieces, too, who, I understood, were 
 with you this afternoon, she feels to have strong claims 
 upon her, almost as strong as those of her own children. 
 To these claims she had not hitherto been able to attend, 
 for she had scarce recovered from the first bewildering ef-
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 255 
 
 feet of her husband's death, when the symptoms which 
 had already alarmed her in her daughter's health, deepen 
 ed into decided consumption, and her whole time was ne 
 cessarily given to her till death released her from her 
 cares." 
 
 "And will she now be able to give a home to these poor 
 girls ?" 
 
 " Only to one of them," said Mr. Melville, " to Ellen." 
 
 " And separate them !" exclaimed Mrs. Melville ; "that 
 will never do." 
 
 " So Mrs. Herbert thought at first," said Mr. Wallace, 
 smiling, " but she has been in correspondence with Mr. 
 Villars on the subject, and she has yielded to his arguments, 
 on the one condition, that the children themselves consent 
 to the arrangement." 
 
 ." That I am sure they will never do," said Mrs. Melville. 
 
 " In that case, Mrs. Herbert's power of being useful to 
 them ceases, since Mr. Villars has decided that the eldest 
 must on no account relinquish the advantages of her posi 
 tion here, as neither he nor Mrs. Herbert are in circum 
 stances to ensure them future support independently of their 
 own exertions." 
 
 " Mr. Villars is certainly a very eccentric man," said 
 Mrs. Melville ; " does he suppose that a few years could 
 make any difference in Mary's claims upon the people of 
 H., or their willingness to give her their support, if she were 
 then compelled to teach." 
 
 " Mr. Villars is eccentric," 'said Mr. Melville ; " yet for 
 what seemed to us strange, he has always had some good 
 reason to give, as I doubt not he has now." 
 
 " Well, here come the children," said Mrs. Melville ; 
 " we shall soon hear their decision, and I suspect you will 
 find that Mr. Villars' limitation is a complete hinderance to 
 Mrs. Herbert's kind intentions." 
 
 The door was thrown open as Mrs. Melville spoke, and 
 the children, unconscious of a stranger's presence, came 
 laughing and talking in. Even Ellen looked pleased, which 
 I was especially glad to see, as her usual gloomy counte 
 nance would have impressed a stranger unfavorably. Mrs. 
 Melville led Mary and Ellen to Mr. Wallace, and intro 
 duced him to them as a friend of their Aunt Herbert. To 
 their inquiries respecting their aunt and her family Mr.
 
 256 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 Wallace replied very fully. The children having said 
 that they had never seen her, he described her appearance, 
 her manners, her character spoke of their cousins George 
 and Charles Herbert, whom he represented as spirited, 
 manly, but kind and affectionate tempered boys. 
 
 " And my cousin Lucy ?" said Mary. 
 
 " Was one of the loveliest and most engaging young 
 persons I ever saw, when she was on earth," said Mr. 
 Wallace ; "she is now, I hope, an angel in heaven." 
 
 " Is my cousin Lucy dead ?" said Ellen, who had hith 
 erto been a silent listener. 
 
 " Yes, my child, she has now been dead for more than 
 two months, after enduring for almost two years very great 
 suffering. During all that time, though I saw her very often, 
 I never heard a complaining word from her. All her grief 
 was for her mother. Even when she was dying she 
 thought of her, and the last words we could distinguish 
 from her were, ' Our good heavenly Father will comfort 
 you, mother.'" 
 
 " Poor Aunt Herbert!" exclaimed Mary, touched with 
 sympathy for such a loss. 
 
 " Yes, my dear child," said Mr. Wallace, " you may 
 well pity her for losing such a daughter, her only daugh 
 ter ; your Aunt Herbert hopes that you will do more than 
 pity her, that you will send her by me another daughter in 
 your sister Ellen, to whom she will be just such a mother 
 as she was to Lucy Herbert. She wished to have you both 
 come to her as her daughters, but your Uncle Villars does 
 not think it wise that you should leave H. just at present ; 
 he consents, however, that Ellen should go to her aunt, if 
 you are both willing." 
 
 From the moment Ellen's name was mentioned, the sis 
 ters had sat looking earnestly into each other's eyes. 
 
 " Ellen," said Mr. Wallace, " will you not go with me, 
 and be another Lucy to this good aunt ?" 
 
 " I could not be like Lucy I am not good enough ; and 
 I cannot leave Mary I cannot leave Mary for anybody." 
 
 Mary threw her arm around Ellen, and drew her closely 
 to her side, answering all Mr. Wallace's arguments only 
 with her tears, or a silent shake of the head. Colonel Mel 
 ville attempted to influence hej, and then she spoke : " Oh ! 
 Colonel Melville, I cannot let Ellen go : I promised my mo- 
 
 ,
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 257 
 
 ther, when I was a very little girl, and then I promised my 
 father when he was on his death-bed, that I never would 
 part with Ellen, and I cannot do it." 
 
 " Mary," said Colonel Melville, " I do not wish you to 
 do it ; none wish you to do it, unless you feel it to be not 
 only right but desirable, and all I would ask of you now is 
 that you and Ellen too would think before you decide on a 
 question of so much importance. As respects your prom 
 ise, you could not have promised that she should not leave 
 you, because about that, you know, she will one of these 
 days have a will of her own, and you cannot prevent her 
 going from you if she chooses it. Now Ellen's home with 
 you is not, I fear, a very happy one," Ellen colored and 
 looked down at these words, " and you have it not in your 
 power to make it so ; and here your kind aunt sends and 
 asks her to come to her and be her daughter, promising to 
 cherish her as her own dear child. Mrs. Herbert will edu 
 cate Ellen as few are capable of doing, and so enable her 
 to be of use to herself and to you too, if the necessity for 
 your labors continue. And there will be no force exer 
 cised over Ellen's wishes there, more than here. I doubt 
 not if, after six months or a year's trial of her home there, 
 she should be dissatisfied, and wish to return to you, she 
 will be permitted to do so." 
 
 " Will she, sir ? May she come back if she should wish 
 to ?" asked Mary quickly, turning to Mr. Wallace. 
 
 " Certainly, my dear ; your aunt's desire is to make 
 Ellen happy, and that could not be done by keeping her 
 against her will. But I would not have you make up your 
 minds in a hurry take to-night to think about it. You 
 have, I hope, been taught to pray ; ask your heavenly Fa 
 ther to direct you to what is best for you. I intended to 
 set off to-morrow afternoon on my way home, but I will 
 wait till the next morning for Ellen, if you will give me 
 your answer in the course of the day, or to-morrow." 
 
 And so it was determined. The children consented to 
 defer their decision till the next day, and Colonel Melville 
 advised that nothing more should then be said on the sub 
 ject. I saw, however, that though they did not speak of it, 
 Mary and Ellen both thought of it ; for more than once I 
 saw Mary's eyes fill with tears as they rested on her sis 
 ter, and Ellen herself perceiving it at one time, shook her 
 
 22*
 
 258 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 head, and said with a smile, " You need not be afraid, 
 Mary ; I shall not leave you." These thoughts, however, 
 did not interfere with Ellen's enjoyment of her supper, 
 which, from the appetite with which it was eaten, was, I 
 doubt not, the only regular meal she had made that day. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE DECISION. 
 
 MR. WALLACE .stayed that night at Colonel Melville's. 
 We had the next morning just assembled around the break- 
 fust-table, when there was a ring at the door-bell, so loud 
 and so hurried, that, surprised and startled, each one turn 
 ed towards the door to watch for the entrance of the ringer. 
 The servant had probably been as much startled as we, for 
 she moved with unusual quickness, and scarce a minute 
 passed from the ring to the entrance into the breakfast par 
 lor of Ellen Leslie, flushed, breathless, and evidently agi- 
 t;ited. Without speaking to, almost without looking at any 
 one else, she walked up to Mr. Wallace, and holding out 
 her hand, said, " I have come to tell you, sir, that I will go 
 with you." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it, my dear ; but sit down, get 
 your breath, and then we will talk about it." 
 
 " I don't want to talk about it," said Ellen, in an impa 
 tient tone ; " I want to go. How soon can we go, sir ?" 
 
 " This afternoon at five o'clock, if you can be ready so 
 soon." 
 
 "I am ready now," Ellen began, but Mrs. Melville, 
 who had risen from the table on her coming in, now ap 
 proached her, and taking off her bonnet, insisted that she 
 should sit down, and take s >:n>' breakfast before she said 
 any thing more about going. Ellen looked at the break 
 fast-table, and seemed to find some attraction in it, for she 
 drew nearer to it, then suddenly turning to Mrs. Melville, 
 said, " But Mary does not know. I must go and tell Mary." 
 
 " I will send for Mary. Anna, go over to Mrs. Mac-
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 259 
 
 lean's, and tell Mary she must come and take her breakfast 
 with us." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Melville," said Ellen ; "I am sure 
 I am much obliged to you, for Mrs. Maclean would not give 
 me any breakfast this morning, and poor Mary felt so badly 
 about it, that I dare say she has not eaten any." 
 
 In a moment, I saw the whole reason of Ellen's unex 
 pected resolve, of her hurry and agitation. She had doubt 
 less refused to go down to breakfast Mrs. Maclean had re 
 fused to let her breakfast go up to her angry words had 
 probably ensued Ellen had declared she would go away 
 Mrs. Maclean, instead of expressing sorrow or apprehen 
 sion at such a threat, had hoped she would, and Ellen, too 
 proud to retract, too wilful to hesitate, had started off at 
 once ; and thus, the decision about which she had been ad 
 vised to think so carefully and prayerfully, was made in 
 a fit of anger, and carried through for the gratification of 
 proud and resentful feeling. 
 
 Anna Melville was gone a longer time than was usually 
 found necessary for a message to Mrs. Maclean's. Mary 
 returned with her, and her eyes showed that her tears had 
 been just hastily wiped away as she entered the parlor. 
 Neither of the sisters ate much breakfast, for Ellen was 
 still too angry and Mary too sorrowful to feel hungry. Mrs. 
 Melville placed Mary by her at table Ellen was at the 
 other end and was careful that nothing should be said in 
 relation to Ellen's departure till breakfast was over. She 
 then took Mary's hand, and leading her into the next room, 
 closed the door after her. They were gone almost an hour, 
 and when they came back, though Mary's eyes were red 
 and swollen, her countenance was much more composed. 
 Ellen looked anxiously at her as she entered, and going up 
 to her, took her hand and said, " Are you sorry I am going, 
 Mary ?" 
 
 " I am sorry and glad too, Ellen," said Mary, pressing 
 her lips to her sister's forehead ; " sorry to part with you, 
 but glad, very glad that you are going to such a good, kind 
 aunt as Mrs. Melville says our Aunt Herbert is." 
 
 " I do not care so much about that, for I am sure she 
 cannot be more good and kind than you are, Mary," and 
 Ellen passed her arm around her sister's waist, and laid 
 her head affectionately on her shoulder ; " but I am very
 
 260 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 glad that I shall not have to go back to that hateful Mrs. 
 Maclean." 
 
 " Hush hush, Ellen. Mrs. Maclean is quick in her 
 temper, but she has been often very kind to us, and you 
 should not call her hateful." 
 
 " She may be very kind to you," said Ellen, " I do not 
 know any thing about that ; but I do not call it kindness to 
 tell me that she would rather go without her meals than 
 eat them with me, and then to refuse to give me my break 
 fast. I told her I would never darken her door again, and 
 I never will. I will not go back even to pack my trunk or 
 get my things." 
 
 Mary looked as if she were about to remonstrate with 
 her sister, but Mrs. Melville interposed, saying, " It will 
 not be at all necessary, Ellen, that you should ; I will go 
 over with Mary and assist her in packing your trunk, and 
 get such things as may be necessary for you on your 
 journey, of which I shall be a better judge than either of 
 you, as I am an older traveller. In the mean time, you 
 had better go around and say good-by to some of your old 
 friends in H. Anna will go with you." 
 
 While Mrs. Melville was speaking, Colonel Melville and 
 Mr. Wallace, who had walked out together after breakfast, 
 entered. 
 
 " Well, my little fellow-traveller," said Mr. Wallace 
 cheerfully, " will you be ready at five o'clock ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Ellen; then after hesitating a moment 
 she added, " You say, sir, that if I want to come back to 
 Mary I can." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, if you want to come back after you 
 have been six months with your Aunt. In a shorter time 
 than that you could form no judgment of what your life 
 there would be ; but if then you wish to return, I am sure 
 that nothing will be done to detain you." 
 
 " There, Mary, you hear that," said Ellen with great 
 animation ; " by that time Uncle Villars will have come 
 back, and then you can leave that" Ellen looked as if 
 she wanted to say hateful again " Mrs. Maclean, and we 
 will all, I dare say, live together just as we used to do." 
 
 " Mrs. Merrill and all," said Colonel Melville slyly, for 
 he had heard from Mr. Villars something of Ellen's disa 
 greements with Mrs. Merrill.
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 261 
 
 Ellen colored very much, but after a minute's hesitation, 
 she said, " Well, even Mrs. Merrill was not so bad as Mrs. 
 Maclean." 
 
 Our party now separated ; Mary and Mrs. Melville went 
 io Mrs. Maclean's, and Ellen and Anna set out to make 
 their visits. Three o'clock brought us all together again 
 for dinner. The flush had now faded from Ellen's cheeks, 
 and it was easy to see that being no longer sustained by 
 anger or resentment, her heart had begun to fail her at the 
 thought of the approaching separation from her sister. 
 But there was now no time for the indulgence of feeling. 
 Immediately after dinner Ellen's baggage was brought 
 over ; then she had to change her dress for that in which 
 she was to travel then to have all the arrangements which 
 Mrs. Melville and Mary had made of those things that 
 would be necessary to her comfort on, the journey ex 
 plained to her ; and before this was completed the carriage 
 was at the door, and her adieus must be made. Ellen 
 started as she heard this announcement, and flung herself 
 into Mary's arms, exclaiming amidst sobs and tears, " Oh 
 Mary, if you could only go with me ! if you could only 
 go with me, Mary !" 
 
 Mary said not a word, but she folded Ellen closely to 
 her heart, as if to part with her were impossible, and wept 
 over her as if that heart were breaking. Anna and Emma 
 Melville sobbed from sympathy, and the rest of us stood 
 around, silent and tearful spectators of the scene. 
 
 " My dear children," said Mr. Wallace at last, " you 
 are needlessly distressing yourselves ; remember it is but a 
 visit Ellen is going on. She shall come back, I again prom 
 ise you, in six months, if she desire to do so." 
 
 " And Mary," said Colonel Melville, going up to her and 
 taking her hand, " it will not do to keep Mr. Wallace 
 waiting. For Ellen's sake, my dear girl, control your 
 self." 
 
 Mary unclasped her arms from her sister, and as Mr. 
 Wallace approached to lead Ellen away she looked im 
 ploringly in his face, and exclaimed in the most earnest 
 tones, " Oh ! be good to her, sir, be very good to her." 
 
 " I will, my dear child, I will," was all that the kind old 
 gentleman could say. 
 
 A silent kiss to Ellen from each of the party, and Mr.
 
 262 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 Wallace led her out to the carriage. The next moment 
 the sound of wheels told that they were off. Mary had 
 stood listening for that sound. As it fell upon her ear she 
 turned from us into an adjoining room, and her quick, 
 heavy sobs reached us where we stood, showing that she 
 had gone there to weep alone. We left her undisturbed 
 for some minutes, and then Mrs. Melville went in and talked 
 soothingly and cheeringly to her. Mary had learned early 
 to control her feelings for the sake of others, and she soon 
 came out with Mrs. Melville, looking and speaking calmly, 
 though often, in the course of the evening, I saw a tear 
 steal down her cheek without her seeming to notice it. 
 Just before night, Mary rose and took her bonnet to return 
 home. " Stay, Mary," said Mrs. Melville, " you are not 
 going to leave Kls so soon. I will send over to let Mrs. 
 Maclean know that you will not return to-night, and the 
 messenger can bring any thing you may want." 
 
 And so Mary stayed that night, and the next day, and a 
 week ; and still, as she talked of going home, new reasons 
 were found for delay. Her obliging temper and gentle 
 manners rendered her so pleasing an inmate, that all found 
 it painful to part with her ; and at last it was arranged 
 that she should remain at Colonel Melville's till Mr. Villars 
 returned, continuing there to employ herself with her 
 needle or pencil, and giving lessons in music, as she had 
 hitherto done, to a few pupils. Leaving her to be loved 
 and cherished by this kind family, we will follow Ellen to 
 her new home. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 NEW FRIENDS. 
 
 LITTLE can be told of Ellen's journey. In ten minutes 
 after leaving Colonel Melville's she found herself on board a 
 steamboat, surrounded by a crowd of strangers. Unaccus 
 tomed to such scenes, she was bewildered by the confusion 
 and bustle around her, and clung to Mr. Wallace as if he 
 had been a friend of long years, instead of an acquaintance
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 263 
 
 of a day. But so kind and good was Mr. Wallace, so 
 thoughtful of Ellen's comfort, so considerate of her feel 
 ings, and so indulgent to her wishes, that under any cir 
 cumstances he could not long have seemed a stranger to 
 her. Ellen had travelled very little, and she soon began 
 to feel an interest in what was passing around her. Mr. 
 Wallace exerted himself to amuse her, pointing out to her 
 the places they passed, or describing those through which 
 their route lay. Thus engaged, Ellen's griefs were for 
 gotten till she retired to her berth for the night, and then 
 the remembrance of the sister, without whose good-night 
 kiss she had never before slept since she could remember, 
 came so vividly upon her, that bursting into tears, she 
 sobbed herself to sleep. She was awakened early the next 
 morning by the chambermaid, who came, at the request of 
 Mr. Wallace, to assist her in dressing. From her Ellen 
 learned that they had arrived in New York. Here Mr. 
 Wallace remained a day and a night, that he might show 
 Ellen something of the largest city in which she had ever 
 been, and give her one good night's rest before they set out 
 on the most fatiguing part of their journey. The next day 
 they went by a steamboat to Albany, and from thence 
 travelled on the railroad or the canal for three or four 
 days and nights, passing thrdugh several large towns, of 
 which Ellen saw nothing except the one street that formed 
 part of their road. It was four o'clock in the afternoon 
 
 when they entered the village of G , situated on a 
 
 small but beautiful lake. There Mr. Wallace resided, and 
 here was the church in which he preached. He took her 
 to his own house and introduced her to his wife, a lady 
 with manners as kind and countenance as pleasing as his 
 own. She placed some raspberry jam with bread and but 
 ter, both of her own making, on the table, and while Ellen 
 partook of it, Mr. Wallace had his own little carriage pre 
 pared, and having placed her baggage in it, called to her 
 to take her seat beside him. They were soon on the way 
 to Mrs. Herbert's farm, which, though also on the borders 
 
 of the lake, was three miles distant from G . Ellen 
 
 did not talk much on the way, for she could think of no 
 more questions to ask about her Aunt Herbert or her cous 
 ins, and she could not talk of any thing else. It was a 
 lovely afternoon. Though still early in May, the season 

 
 264 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 was unusually forward, and the air was soft and balmy as 
 June. As they approached Mrs. Herbert's place, the road 
 descended to the very edge of the lake. There was not a 
 ripple on the water, and its smooth surface glittered like 
 gold beneath the beams of the almost setting sun. Orchards 
 and gardens were full of bloom, and the long low farm 
 house, which was so surrounded with trees that you scarce 
 saw it till you had reached the very door, looked like the 
 abode of peace and gentleness. Two boys who were fish 
 ing in the lake from its bank, about fifty yards from the 
 house, were the only persons in sight. When they first 
 saw the carriage, they stood looking steadily at it for a few 
 minutes, as if to ascertain whose it was, then dropping their 
 fishing rods, ran towards the house. 
 
 " There they go to give notice of our coming. Poor 
 Charley, George has left him far behind. How hard he 
 tries to get up with his brother ! Suppose we stop and take 
 him up," said the good-natured Mr. Wallace, at the same 
 time checking his horse and standing up in the carriage to 
 beckon to Charles. 
 
 The tired boy gladly obeyed the summons, having only 
 one narrow field and a fence between him and the road. 
 
 " There, Charley," said Mr. Wallace as he helped him 
 up the side of the carriage and placed him by Ellen, " you 
 have been the first to see cousin Ellen, if George has car 
 ried the news of her coming to mamma." 
 
 " Oh ! cousin Ellen," said Charles, " how glad I am you 
 have come, it will make mamma so happy !" 
 
 Ellen looked with surprise upon her cousin Charles, he 
 was so much younger and more delicate than she had ex 
 pected to see him. Mr. Wallace had said that the eldest 
 of Mrs. Herbert's sons was thirteen years old, and Ellen 
 had forgotten to ask the age of the other, but she had sup 
 posed him to be nearly if not quite twelve. He had said 
 too that they were manly, and Ellen had concluded that 
 they must be very large for their age, and very strong and 
 robust. But Charles, though really ten years old, looked 
 scarcely eight, he was so small, fair, and delicate, having 
 always had very feeble health. Yet he was manly in his 
 feelings, and so ambitious to equal his brother George's ex 
 ploits, that he would do many things that some older and 
 stronger-looking boys would not have attempted.
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 265 
 
 Ellen had just recovered her surprise, and decided that 
 she liked Charles better as he was, with his light brown 
 curls, his fair childish face, and bright laughing blue eyes, 
 than she would have done if he had been a great, bluster 
 ing boy, when the carriage stopped at the door of the house, 
 where already stood George, flushed and panting with his 
 race, and Mrs. Herbert. Ellen was never very slow in 
 determining the feelings with which she would regard any 
 one, and she often afterwards said, that she loved her Aunt 
 Herbert as soon as she looked upon her. Few faces were 
 so well calculated to produce such an impression as was 
 Mrs. Herbert's. She was in deep mourning, and wore one 
 of those close plain caps commonly called widow's caps, 
 under which her brown hair, being parted in the middle of 
 the forehead, was put smoothly back behind the ears. The 
 upper part of her face was serious in its expression, but the 
 mouth, if it did not actually smile always, looked so gentle 
 and pleasant, that you thought it was going to smile. 
 When Ellen first saw her, however, she was actually smi 
 ling, though tears were in her eyes, as again and again she 
 pressed her niece to her heart, and kissing her tenderly, 
 thanked her for coming to her, and called her her daughter 
 Ellen. 
 
 " Cousin Ellen," said George, who looked just as Ellen 
 had expected, tall, and stout, and sun-burned, " Cousin El 
 len, we are very glad to see you." 
 
 " Not cousin Ellen sister Ellen, my son ; you are all 
 oiy children now," said Mrs. Herbert, as again she folded 
 Ellen in her arms. 
 
 " You must always live with us then," said Charles ; 
 " we shall not let you go away again." 
 
 Ellen, half bewildered among so many new claimants of 
 her affection, had scarce spoken a word in reply to their 
 greetings. She now looked around for Mr. Wallace. He 
 saw the look, and understood it. 
 
 " Stay, stay, Ch'arles, it takes two, you know, to make a 
 bargain, and I have already promised that if Ellen wish it 
 she shall go back in six months to her sister Mary from 
 whom, I assure you, it was no easy matter to get her away. 
 So if you would keep her, you must make her love you 
 so much in six months that she will not choose to leave 
 you." 
 
 23 

 
 266 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 " So we will," said Charles, " so we will ; and we'll 
 bring sister Mary here too, mamma won't we ?" 
 
 " I hope so, my son ; for Mary, too, I consider as my 
 daughter, and would gladly have had her come now, if Mr. 
 Villars had consented." 
 
 Ellen looked gratefully at her aunt, and began to doubt 
 whether she ever should wish to leave her. 
 
 Ellen seemed so much fatigued after the first excitement 
 of her arrival was over, that Mrs. Herbert had tea prepared 
 immediately, and directly after it she led Ellen to her 
 chamber. This was a small room opening into her own. 
 It was furnished very plainly, as was indeed every room 
 in Mrs. Herbert's house ; but nothing could be more neat 
 than its appearance, with its clean white window-curtains 
 and coverlet. Mrs. Herbert assisted Ellen to undress her 
 self, and when she was ready to lie down she kissed her 
 tenderly, saying, " Good-night, my love : you will not for- 
 
 fet before you sleep to thank our kind heavenly Father 
 >r bringing you in safety to us. We are early risers 
 here, but I shall not wake you to-morrow, for you want 
 rest." 
 
 Ellen lay down with very pleasant thoughts of her new 
 home, but all thoughts were soon forgotten in a sound sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 NEW THOUGHTS. 
 
 ELLEN slept so soundly that for a long time she did not 
 even dream, or at least she did not remember any dreams ; 
 but at last she thought she was back again at H., sitting 
 with Mary in their own room, and Mary was sewing and 
 singing as she sewed, 
 
 But I will be a bee, to sup 
 Pure honey from each flow'ry cap ; 
 Busy and pleased around I'll fly, 
 And treasure win from earth and sky. 
 
 And Ellen tried to sing with Mary, but in spite of all her 
 efforts she could not make a sound, and she woke with her
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 267 
 
 fruitless exertions. The sun was shining brightly on her 
 window curtains, and she soon saw she was not at Mrs. 
 Maclean's ; yet still she heard singing, and it was the very 
 same tune which she had fancied in her dream, but there 
 were several voices, and Mary's was not among them. The 
 music ceased very soon after she awoke, and Ellen lay 
 wondering who had been singing so early, and whether 
 they sang the words as well as the tune of Mary's song. 
 She had been awake fifteen, or perhaps twenty minutes, 
 when her door was cautiously opened, and Mrs. Herbert 
 entered very softly. 
 
 " Oh you are awake, Ellen," she said, as Ellen raised 
 her head from her pillow to see who was entering : " I have 
 looked in upon you once or twice this morning, but you 
 were asleep, and I would not awake you." 
 
 " But I have been awake some time now, Aunt Herbert, 
 and I want to know who it is that has been singing, ' I 
 will not be a butterfly ;' I was dreaming about Mary's 
 singing it, and when I first awoke and heard it, I thought 
 she was here." 
 
 " You did not hear those words, my dear, but only the 
 tune, which the boys and I were singing to our morning 
 hymn." 
 
 " Morning hymn ?" repeated Ellen, looking inquiringly 
 at her aunt, as she slowly proceeded in dressing herself. 
 
 " Is that a strange thing to you, Ellen ?" asked Mrs. 
 Herbert with a smile ; " I hope you will be up to-morrow 
 in time to join us in singing it : but now your breakfast is 
 ready," and Mrs. Herbert led the way to the room in 
 which they had taken tea the evening before, where Ellen 
 found George and Charles. They greeted her very affec 
 tionately, begged permission to call her Ellen, because 
 they should then feel more at home with her, than if they 
 were obliged to say cousin or even sister Ellen, and be 
 fore they had risen from breakfast had made many plans 
 for her amusement. Charles would have carried her off at 
 once to see his puppy, but Mrs. Herbert stopped them. 
 
 " I must have Ellen," she said, " a little while to my 
 self this morning. This afternoon she shall go with you, 
 if she like." 
 
 After the boys had gone out Mrs. Herbert went with 
 Ellen to her room, and assisted her to put it in neat order. 

 
 268 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 When this was done, Ellen in turn assisted her aunt in set 
 ting the breakfast things away and arranging the parlor. 
 
 As Ellen was rather of an indolent nature, and Mary 
 had ever been ready to do for her what she did not like to 
 do for herself, she had scarcely ever been actively employ 
 ed for so long a time ; yet she did not feel at all tired, but 
 found herself more than once, when her aunt Herbert was 
 silent, humming, 
 
 Busy and pleased around I'll fly, 
 And treasure win from earth and sky. 
 
 When Mrs. Herbert's domestic arrangements were com 
 pleted, she said, " Now, my love, you have been of great 
 service to me, and I must try to be of some service to you. 
 I cannot expect you to study to-day, but we will unpack 
 your books, and arrange some plan for your studies, which 
 you will then be able to commence to-morrow." 
 
 When this had been done, it still wanted two hours to 
 the dinner time, and Mrs. Herbert proposed that Ellen 
 should sit by her and assist her with some needle-work. 
 " And then," she added, " we shall be able to talk more 
 quietly than we could do while moving about. There are 
 many things that you can tell me, of which I am anxious 
 to hear." 
 
 Ellen was much more willing to tell than she was to 
 sew, but she was not yet sufficiently at ease with her aunt 
 Herbert to object to any thing she proposed, and she ac 
 cordingly found her thimble and scissors, and seating her 
 self by her aunt's side, took the work she gave her without 
 any expression of dissatisfaction. 
 
 " And now, Ellen," said Mrs. Herbert, when the, work 
 had all been so explained that there were no more ques 
 tions to ask about it, "I want you to tell me something 
 about Mary is she like you ?" 
 
 "Mary like me!" exclaimed Ellen; "oh no, Aunt Her 
 bert, Mary is more like you than she is like me." 
 
 " Indeed ! does she look like me ?" 
 
 " Well, I do not mean exactly that she looks like you, 
 but she looks pleased like you, and moves about quietly, 
 and never seems to be out of patience : everybody loves 
 Mary." 
 
 There was something in the tone in which these last
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 2ti S 
 
 words were said that made Mrs. Herbert raise her eyes 
 from her work and look at her niece. Ellen caught the 
 glance, colored, and hung her head. 
 
 " And everybody loves Ellen too, I hope," said Mrs. 
 Herbert, with a smile. 
 
 Ellen's head drooped yet lower, and she did not answer. 
 
 " Speak, my love ; you were not jealous I hope of the 
 love which was given to Mary ?" 
 
 " Oh no, Aunt Herbert, I was not jealous of Mary ; that 
 is, I did not want people not to love Mary, but I did wish 
 that they would love me too, and not to be so cross to me." 
 
 " Poor child," said Mrs. Herbert, feelingly, " was every 
 one cross to you ?" 
 
 " No, not every one. Mary never was cross to me 
 nor poor papa nor Uncle Villars ; though Uncle Villars 
 did not love me as much as he did Mary." 
 
 " And why was this, Ellen ? Did you think there was 
 any reason for it ?" 
 
 Mrs. Herbert spoke very gently, but again Ellen hung 
 her head and looked abashed. 
 
 " Do not be ashamed to tell me, my love, what you 
 thought was the cause. I love you, Ellen, very much, 
 and all the more for telling me so freely what you think 
 and feel. I think it a sad thing a very great evil, not to 
 be loved ; and perhaps the cause of this in your own case 
 may be one which, if I knew it, I could help you to re 
 move." 
 
 " Oh no, Aunt Herbert, nobody can help me, for it is 
 just my own bad temper." Ellen was now weeping, and 
 it was amidst sobs that she continued " I cannot help it ; 
 I am sure I try to be good, and to please people and to 
 make them love me. I do think I tiy a great deal harder 
 than, Mary does, and that makes me feel so much worse 
 when they say unkind things to me ; and then I cannot be 
 still like Mary, but I get angry and talk back to them, and 
 that makes them dislike me more and more, and I am sure 
 it is not my fault, for I cannot help it." 
 
 Mrs. Herbert laid aside her work, put her arm around 
 Ellen and drew her to her side, and laying her head upon 
 her shoulder, spoke soothingly and tenderly to her, till she 
 ceased to weep. When Ellen's sobs were hushed, she 
 said, " My dear child, Aunt Herbert knows how you feel 
 
 23*
 
 270 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 and how to feel for you, for she has suffered just as you do, 
 from just such a bad temper." 
 
 " You, aunt Herbert !" exclaimed Ellen, raising her head 
 and looking at her aunt with surprise, " did you ever have 
 a bad temper ?" 
 
 " I had just such a temper, Ellen, as you describe ; wish 
 ing to be loved, anxious to please, so anxious that I was 
 willing to do any thing for it, except control my hasty feel 
 ings or keep back my rash words." 
 
 " And how did you get over it, aunt Herbert ?" 
 
 " The first step towards my deliverance from the evil, 
 Ellen, was feeling that it was my own fault." 
 
 Ellen's face turned very red, and she answered quickly, 
 " How can it be my fault when I try so hard to help it ?" 
 
 " My child, the fault must lie somewhere j whose is it if 
 it is not yours ?" 
 
 " I didn't make myself," said Ellen, sullenly. 
 
 " And would you say, my dear Ellen, that the fault is 
 His who made you ?" 
 
 Ellen was silent she dared not say this with her lips 
 yet it was the language of her heart. 
 
 " Ellen, since you began to notice your bad temper has 
 it not become worse ? are you not more easily made 
 angry now than you were formerly ?" 
 
 Mrs. Herbert paused, but Ellen did not answer. 
 
 "Speak, my dear Ellen, you must place confidence in 
 me, if you would have my help in getting rid of this evil. 
 Is it not as I say, Ellen?" 
 
 " Yes," whispered Ellen, again hiding her face on her 
 aunt's shoulder. 
 
 " Whose fault has this been, Ellen ? has God, do you 
 think, continued to make your temper worse and worse ?" 
 
 " I have lived with such cross, ill-natured people," 
 murmured Ellen. 
 
 " Mary has lived with the same people ; has it had the 
 same effect on her ?" 
 
 Ellen was silent. 
 
 " My dear child," said Mrs. Herbert, " I have not asked 
 these questions to give you pain. It is not to mortify you, 
 but to give you hope, that I would have you feel the fault 
 to be yours, for your own fault you may correct ; not so 
 with the faults of others. And now, having convinced
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 271 
 
 you, I hope, that the fault is your own, the next question 
 is, what has been your fault shall I tell you this, my 
 love ?" 
 
 Mrs. Herbert spoke so gently so affectionately, that 
 Ellen could not be angry. She answered very softly, " If 
 you please." " What this fault was, Ellen, your own 
 words have shown. You say you have loved others and 
 tried to please them, but you said nothing of loving God, 
 and trying to please Him. You do not seem to have 
 thought that the angry feelings and hasty words which dis 
 pleased your friends were an offence to Him. You have 
 thought of your temper as an unhappiness for which you 
 were to be pitied, rather than as a great wrong for which 
 you were to be blamed. You have even had hard thoughts 
 of God, as if he had caused this unhappiness. Think of 
 His kindness and love to you, Ellen, and be ashamed of 
 such thoughts. Who but He gave you so tender a father 
 so kind a sister as Mary and so generous a friend as 
 your Uncle Villars ? Look up at the sky and see the sun 
 which He has placed there to give light and warmth look 
 around you on the earth, and see the flowers which clothe 
 it with beauty and the fruits which it produces for your 
 gratification and be humbled, Ellen, that you should have 
 thought this good God unkind ?" Mrs. Herbert paused, 
 for she was overcome for a moment by her own emotions. 
 " Do you not feel His love, Ellen ?" she asked at 
 length. 
 
 " But he did not make all these good and beautiful things 
 for me," said Ellen, speaking in a whisper, as if she were 
 ashamed of her own cavils. 
 
 " If not made for your gratification, Ellen, why were 
 you created with senses to enjoy them why have you 
 eyes to see, the sense of smell for this delicious perfume 
 which the breeze is bringing to us, and taste to find 
 pleasure in your food ? But the half of His love I have 
 not yet told you. Do you not remember, Ellen, that 
 knowing you to be weak seeing that you would meet 
 trials and temptations in the world that you would com 
 mit great faults and endure great sufferings in consequence 
 of those faults He sent His son into the world to show you 
 how these trials might be borne and these temptations re 
 sisted, to teach you that He loved you even when you were
 
 272 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 sinning and suffering, and if you would but love Him in re 
 turn and strive to please Him, He would aid your weak 
 efforts, would pardon your sins, and give you peace here 
 and heaven hereafter ? And it is in this way, dear Ellen, 
 that you can alone hope to get rid of that bad, sinful 
 temper which has caused you so much pain. Think much 
 of the goodness and love of your kind heavenly Father, 
 that you may love and strive to please Him. This will 
 make you watchful over the first beginnings of evil, the 
 first rising up of angry feelings in your heart, and you 
 will strive then to overcome them before they have become 
 strong by indulgence. Yet with all your efforts, Ellen, I 
 do not promise you that you will not often fail ; but as you 
 learn to trust in the love of God, you will acknowledge 
 your faults to Him even as you would to an earthly father, 
 and humbly ask Him to pardon and help you : and He 
 will, Ellen, He will help you, and through His help you 
 shall conquer all evil." 
 
 Mrs. Herbert was silent, and Ellen remained for some 
 time with her face concealed, neither speaking nor moving ; 
 at length she whispered, " And you will try to love me, 
 Aunt Herbert, though I have told you how bad I am." 
 
 " I love you, dear child, a thousand times better for 
 having told me, and I will never love you less for faults 
 which you honestly acknowledge and earnestly strive to 
 correct." 
 
 "And you will not tell George and Charles." 
 
 " Never : but now go to your room, and wash your 
 face, lest that should tell them that you have been griev- 
 ing." 
 
 Ellen obeyed, and she removed the redness from her 
 face, but the thoughts and feelings which her Aunt had 
 awakened, did not depart from her mind. Ellen had heard 
 of God's goodness and love before, but never had they been 
 so urged upon her never had she been made so to think 
 about them and to feel them; and the impression was 
 abiding, for her Aunt was ever "ready to awaken her ob 
 servation to new proofs of that goodness and love. She 
 had now a new reason to endeavor to conquer her faults, 
 the desire to do right to obey God and please Him. 
 
 It must not be supposed, however, that any lesson, how 
 ever well remembered and deeply impressed, could over-
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 273 
 
 come in a day or a week, or even a month, the habits of 
 Ellen's whole life. On the contrary, she had yet often to 
 exclaim, with bitter sorrow, " Oh, Aunt Herbert ! do you 
 think I ever shall do right ?" But she never now thought 
 it was the fault of others when she did wrong ; and although 
 on such occasions she was grieved, more grieved than for 
 merly, she never long felt hopeless, for she remembered 
 that her Aunt Herbert had once been like her, and that the 
 same heavenly Father who had aided her aunt to overcome 
 the evil of her nature, loved her, and would hear her pray 
 ers. Yet she still had many terrible sufferings to endure 
 from the evil which she had so long indulged, and some of 
 these I will relate to you. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 PASSION, AND ITS FRUITS. 
 
 I HAVE said that Charles Herbert's health had never been 
 very strong. He had in consequence been a petted child, 
 and though Mrs. Herbert never failed to rebuke any im 
 proper temper ever manifested by him, she never checked 
 his mirth or playfulness, even when something of the spirit 
 of mischief entered into it. Thus, while Charles was one 
 of the most amiable and affectionate boys in the world, he 
 was often, to a person as irritable as Ellen, one of the most 
 provoking. 
 
 " What shall be done to the owner of this ?" exclaimed 
 Charles, as, running up the steps to the piazza in which 
 Ellen was standing, about ten days after her arrival, he 
 held up a letter addressed in very legible characters to 
 " Miss Ellen Leslie," and what was more, in characters 
 which Ellen knew to be Mary's. " What shall be done to 
 the owner of this ?" Then answering his own interroga 
 tory, " She shall speak a speech, sing a song, or tell a 
 riddle." 
 
 " Charles, give me my letter," said Ellen, trying to get 
 it from him ; but he eluded her grasp, and springing on the 
 bannister surrounding the piazza, held it far beyond her
 
 274 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 reach, while he continued to answer her demands with, 
 " The speech, the song, or the riddle, Ellen. Surely, a 
 letter is worth one of them, and such a long letter too, the 
 lines are so close." 
 
 While he ran on thus, Ellen, who had commenced with 
 entreaties, proceeded to commands, angry threatenings, and 
 bitter accusations. 
 
 " I'll tell your mother, sir, that you took my letter from 
 me ; stole it, for it is stealing to take other people's things. 
 I would not be so mean ; but I will see what she will say 
 to you, sir ; I will see if she will let you take every thing 
 away from me, and ill treat me, just because I have not 
 anybody to take my part," and overcome by passion, Ellen 
 burst into tears. 
 
 In an instant Charles was at her side. " Oh, Ellen, 
 don't cry ; here is your letter. I am sure, Ellen, I did not 
 mean to make you feel so bad by my foolish play ; take 
 your letter, Ellen." 
 
 " I won't take it," said Ellen, passionately, " I won't 
 take it. I know why you give it to me now ; you think 
 your mother is coming, and you don't want me to tell her ; 
 but I will, sir." 
 
 Ellen had not time to say more, for Mrs. Herbert stood 
 before them. 
 
 " Ellen Charles, what is the matter ?" 
 
 " Charles took my letter, and would not give it to me, 
 though I begged him, till he thought you were coming, and 
 then he wanted me to take it, that I might not tell you ; but 
 I would not take it from him, for I think it is very hard if 
 he is just to take my things, and keep them as long as he 
 likes, and then give them back to me, and never get even 
 a scolding for it," was Ellen's passionate reply. 
 
 " Mother, you know that I was only playing with Ellen," 
 was the explanation of Charles. 
 
 " It is not a kind spirit that finds sport in another's suf 
 fering, Charles." Charles hung his head, pained and 
 abashed by his mother's rebuke. " There is your letter, 
 Ellen. I think I may promise for Charles that he will 
 never again pain you and displease his mother by such 
 thoughtless conduct, and we will forgive him now." 
 
 But Ellen's anger had been too thoroughly aroused to 
 be so easily appeased, and many hours had passed before
 
 ELLEN LES.JE. 275 
 
 her face lost its resentful expression, or her manners their 
 cold reserve towards Charles. 
 
 Not far from Mrs. Herbert's house the lake set up into 
 the land, forming a deep but narrow bay, and dividing her 
 farm into two almost equal parts. Across this bay was 
 laid a rude bridge only two planks in width, and with no 
 defence but a slender hand-rail on the sides. It was of 
 course never used by horsemen, but was sufficiently safe 
 for foot-passengers. On the farther side of this bay lived 
 the man who attended to Mrs. Herbert's farming business. 
 The dairy had also been built near his house, for the con 
 venience of his wife, who attended to it. To this dairy was 
 a favorite walk with the children, the good-natured Mrs. 
 Smith never failing to treat them to some of its products. 
 
 Ellen had been about five weeks with her aunt when 
 she and Charles set out together on this walk. The sun 
 was only an hour high, yet it was still warm, and she 
 sauntered slowly along. Charles had lately become very 
 expert in walking on stilts. As this was a very recent 
 accomplishment, he was still very vain of it, and might 
 generally be seen looking over the heads of people taller 
 than himself. Especially did Charles pride himself on his 
 ability to go on stilts over the bridge, which was in reality 
 as safe for him as the dry ground, so long as he kept 
 steadily on. On the afternoon of which we are speaking, 
 he was elevated as usual, and would at one time stride 
 rapidly on before Ellen, and then turn and come slowly 
 back to her, and then wheel around and around her, ever, 
 as he went and came, discoursing, not of what he could do, 
 but of what his brother George could, for proud as he 
 might be of his own powers, Charles was always ready to 
 acknowledge that George excelled him. Ellen's temper 
 was perhaps a little influenced by the sultry weather. 
 However this may be, she certainly did not feel very 
 pleasantly, and had more than once during their walk 
 evinced considerable impatience. Several times she begged 
 that Charles would not wheel around her so, as it made 
 her dizzy that he would keep farther off, as she was afraid 
 of his stilts striking her and at length she exclaimed, 
 " Do, Charles, talk about something else besides what 
 George can do. I am sick of hearing of it. I wonder if 
 there is any thing that you think he cannot do."
 
 276 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 Charles was vexed at this disrespect to George, and 
 there was a little malice in the reply, " Yes, I don't think 
 George can write poetry, as some other people I know can. 
 I found some poetry this morning," he added, looking 
 archly at Ellen, " and I am sure you will like it when you 
 see it published in the G Mirror." 
 
 Ellen's face became crimson. Did any of my young 
 readers ever attempt to write poetry ? If so, tney have 
 only to remember how carefully they concealed their first 
 effort, how much abashed they were at the idea of its being 
 seen, how sensitive to the least appearance of ridicule, to 
 understand the cause of Ellen's blush. Ellen had made 
 more than one effort, but there was only one of her produc 
 tions which she had ever thought of sufficient importance 
 to preserve. This was a piece addressed to Mary, which 
 she had kept with the hope that she might one day gather 
 courage to send it to her. She had supposed it safe at the 
 very bottom of the black silk bag which she carried on her 
 arm, but she now began to fear, from the manner of Charles, 
 that he had in some way got it. In this she was right. 
 Ellen had not been so careful as she supposed in putting 
 the paper into her bag, and afterwards, in drawing her 
 handkerchief out, it had fallen unperceived upon the floor. 
 Here Charles had found it. He read it, and saw by the 
 handwriting it was Ellen's. Remembering the letter scene, 
 he faithfully resolved not to tease her about it, but after 
 he should have shown it to George, to give it to her without 
 saying a word of his acquaintance with the contents. 
 Ellen had vexed him now, however, and it was impossible 
 to avoid making use of such an excellent mode of punish 
 ment- Charles saw Ellen's blush, but this proof of his 
 power only stimulated him to fresh mischief. He stopped, 
 and taking off his cap drew the paper from the inner side 
 of the crown lining, where it had been carefully placed to 
 secure it from the observation of others. Ellen, in the 
 mean time, desirous of appearing quite unconcerned, passed 
 on to the bridge, and was already upon it when Charles over 
 took her, exclaiming, " Stop, Ellen : what are you running 
 off for ? stop and hear it," which only made Ellen walk the 
 faster. 
 
 " Well," said Charles, " you have no idea what you are 
 losing," and he commenced repeating a piece of doggerel 

 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 277 
 
 which had been manufactured by some boy he had known 
 in G 
 
 " The gardens were full of bright young greens, 
 The patches were full of corn and beans." 
 
 The .artifice was successful. Ellen, relieved from her 
 fears, turned round with a smile to listen, and Charles, 
 planting his stilts in such a manner that she could not pass 
 him in either direction without approaching nearer to the 
 edge of the narrow bridge than she would like to do, held a 
 paper in his hand high above her reach, and read from it 
 in a loud voice, and with much flourish and parade 
 
 "To MARY. 
 
 " Companion of my early years, 
 Who shared my joys, who soothed my tears." 
 
 " Let me go, Charles," exclaimed Ellen, endeavoring in 
 vain to pass. 
 
 " Who smiled when others' looks grew dark ?" 
 
 " Let me pass," almost shrieked Ellen, mad with anger, 
 and losing all control of herself. " I will not stay to be 
 laughed at," and she began with all her strength to push 
 against one of the stilts. 
 
 " Oh ! Ellen, just hear this line ' Whose patient love ' 
 Stop, stop, Ellen, you'll throw me into the water," cried 
 Charles hurriedly, as he felt the stilt yielding to the efforts 
 of Ellen, to whom increasing anger lent new vigor. Ellen 
 pushed on, either not hearing or not heeding. Perhaps she 
 had not time to stay her hand, for it was but a moment and 
 the stilt had passed off the bridge. Then came a crashing 
 sound, as the hand-rail yielded beneath the weight of 
 Charles then a sharp cry of terror a sudden plash and 
 Ellen stood alone upon the bridge, gazing in wild dismay 
 upon the waters which had closed silently over the just 
 now gay and animated boy. 
 
 But Ellen had not been the only spectator of this scene. 
 The cry of Charles had been echoed from the bank. There 
 had been a quick rush of some one to the spot where Ellen 
 stood. She was conscious of a plunge into the water, on 
 which her eyes were riveted with a stupifying, bewildering 
 horror. How long it was she knew not it seemed to her 
 24
 
 278 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 very, very long ere George, for it was he who made the 
 rush and the plunge, was seen swimming to the shore, 
 bearing with him a body, which appeared to have no power 
 to support itself, but rested a lifeless weight on his support 
 ing arm. Ellen followed his every movement with a fixed, 
 wild stare she saw him land, still clasping one arm around 
 that body then her Aunt Herbert met him, and helped 
 him to carry it. Ellen had not seen her before, but she 
 now remembered that echoing cry, and knew that it had 
 been hers. In all this time Ellen had uttered no sound 
 made no movement ; but now Mrs. Herbert called her. 
 Ellen drew near near enough to see that still, pale face, 
 with the bright eyes closed and the dripping hair hanging 
 around it to see the clinched hand, in which a remnant 
 yet remained of the worthless paper for which she had done 
 this. Ellen covered her face with her hands and shudder 
 ed. " Ellen," said Mrs. Herbert, and her voice was gen 
 tle as ever, though melancholy and full of pity, " he may 
 live yet ; at least let us not think of ourselves till we have 
 done all we can for him. Run, Ellen, to Mr. Smith's 
 send him for the doctor quick, quick, Ellen then home 
 have a fire made blankets got ready send the first per 
 son you meet to help George and me in bearing God 
 grant," she exclaimed, suddenly interrupting herself and 
 letting her head drop for a moment on the cold face which 
 rested on her bosom, " God grant we may not be bearing 
 the dead !" 
 
 Ellen flew rather than ran to Mr. Smith's, repeating to 
 herself on the way the words which had put new life into 
 her, " He may live he may live." On the way she met 
 a laborer, whom she sent forward to join her aunt and 
 George. Her message to Mr. Smith delivered, she waited 
 not to answer one of the many questions urged upon her, 
 she did not seem to hear them, but rushing back, passed 
 the sad, slow procession about half way, and had the fire 
 made, the bed and blankets prepared, before they arrived. 
 Then came the agony for her. To see that lifeless body, 
 as she was called upon to help her aunt to touch those cold 
 limbs to watch and wait in vain for some token of re 
 turning life some mark that she was not henceforward to 
 regard herself as a murderer this was agony indeed. 
 
 Under Mrs. Herbert's direction all the usual restoratives
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 279 
 
 for persons rescued from drowning were resorted to, and 
 even before the physician who had been sent for appeared, 
 some warmth was restored to the limbs, and a faint tinge 
 of color to the cheeks. Oh the joy of that first hope of 
 success the yet greater joy, when those lips, which they 
 had feared were sealed forever, unclosed, and a feeble voice 
 proceeded from them murmuring " Mother." 
 
 " He is safe enough now," said the physician. Up to 
 this moment Ellen had not made a sound expressive of her 
 feelings. She was deadly pale, and had any one touched 
 her, they would have found that she was scarcely less cold 
 than the limbs she was chafing ; but she was perfectly still. 
 Now, however, as the physician's welcome words reached 
 her ear, she clasped her hands together, uttered one cry, 
 and would have fallen, had not George caught her. She 
 was taken to her own apartment, and the doctor having 
 given her a composing draught, ordered her to be put im 
 mediately to bed. Notwithstanding this, fever came on, 
 and before morning Mrs. Herbert was called from her now 
 quietly sleeping boy to the delirious Ellen. Ellen's con 
 stant cry during this delirium was, " I have killed him I 
 have killed him," repeated in every variety of tone, now 
 Low and plaintive, now wild and phrensied. At length, to 
 wards morning, she fell asleep. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert having seen that Charles was still quiet, 
 and having obtained George's promise to call her if he 
 awoke and inquired for her, returned to Ellen's room, and 
 lay down beside her. Ellen continued to sleep for several 
 hours, at first uttering low moans, and muttering to herself, 
 as if disturbed by unpleasant dreams, but afterwards be 
 coming quite still, and sleeping easily and naturally. Mrs. 
 Herbert had arisen, and was seated beside her when she 
 awoke, which she did with a start. She gazed for a mo 
 ment at her aunt with some wildness in her countenance, 
 but as Mrs. Herbert smiled upon her, this expression passed 
 away, and putting out her hand to her, she said, "Aunt 
 Herbert, I have had such a dreadful dream. I dreamed 
 that I killed Charles. It is not true," she exclaimed quick 
 ly, " is it ?" and Ellen raised herself on her elbow, and 
 looked searchingly into her Aunt's face. , 
 
 " No, my dear Ellen Charles is almost well again." 
 
 " Almost well again," she repeated, and then was silent
 
 280 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 for some minutes, during which she lay with her eyes 
 closed. At length tears began to steal down her cheeks, 
 and in a low, tremulous voice, Ellen said, " I remember 
 all now, Aunt Herbert : I hoped it was a dream ; but I re 
 member it all now, and I know that if you and George 
 had not been walking that way just then, Charles would 
 have been drowned, and I should have killed him have 
 killed your child my own dear cousin Charles. Aunt 
 Herbert, do you not wish I had never come to you ?" 
 
 " So far from it, dear Ellen, that the more proof I have 
 of the strength of this evil in your nature, the more re 
 joiced I am that by coming to me you have given me the 
 power of helping you to subdue it. You were the occasion 
 of very bitter suffering to me yesterday evening, Ellen; 
 and yet, now that God in His mercy has restored my child, 
 I can be thankful even for this lesson to you, if it influence 
 you as I hope and believe it will if you learn from it to 
 dread anger as the beginning of murder. Human passion, 
 Ellen, is like a raging sea, to which only the infinite God 
 can say, ' hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther, and here 
 shall thy waves be stayed.' " 
 
 Ellen remained quite still. Tears slowly trickled down 
 her cheeks ; but she did not, as was usual with her when 
 agitated, weep violently. She seemed softened, subdued, 
 humbled. 
 
 After some minutes had passed thus, she said, " Aunt 
 Herbert, it seems as if I never could forget yesterday even 
 ing ; and as if, so long as I remembered it, I never could be 
 angry again. But I have so often thought I was cured, 
 that I am afraid ; do pray for me, Aunt Herbert pray to 
 God that I may never forget." 
 
 Mrs. Herbert was accustomed to pray with her children 
 morning and evening, and she now knelt by Ellen's bed, 
 and in the simple language of a child revealing its feelings 
 to a father, poured out before God all those feelings of 
 which Ellen's heart and hers were full. Fervently did 
 she thank Him for having given them back, as if from the 
 very grave, her beloved boy ; for having saved the dear 
 child beside her from the wretchedness of having taken 
 away the life of another; and earnestly, solemnly did she 
 pray that he would cast out from her that evil spirit, which, 
 if it were indulged, would destroy her soul's life would 

 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 281 
 
 take from her that eternal life which the blessed Saviour 
 had come into the world to reveal as the portion of all those 
 who loved God and obeyed His commands. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert did not suffer either Ellen or Charles to 
 rise on this day. When they met the next morning, noth 
 ing could be more touching than the humility with which 
 Ellen entreated the forgiveness of Charles, and the gene 
 rosity with which he declared that it was all his own fault, 
 and that he never would tease her again. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A PLEASANT CONCLUSION. 
 
 I FEAR my story has seemed hitherto sad and gloomy to 
 my young readers ; but this could not be avoided, for over 
 the fairest scenes and happiest circumstances, one such un 
 controlled temper as Ellen's will spread sorrow and gloom. 
 This temper was no longer uncontrolled, and what has 
 since passed of her life is in beautiful and delightful con 
 trast with its earlier portion. I say her temper was no 
 longer uncontrolled. Her nature was as sensitive as ever 
 as quick to feel joy or pain, pleasure or displeasure ; but 
 Ellen had learned to rule these feelings, and not to be ruled 
 by them not to speak or act as they dictated, till satisfied 
 that the speech or the action was right. 
 
 I cannot deny myself the pleasure of relating one or two 
 scenes, which may illustrate the effect of this change upon 
 the happiness of Ellen's future life. 
 
 The bloom of spring and the sultriness of summer had 
 given place to the varied foliage and cool bracing breeze 
 of November. It was a bright but cool day, and a cheer 
 ful fire blazed in the open fireplace of Mrs. Herbert's par 
 lor. Around it were seated all her own family, and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Wallace, who were spending the day with her. 
 All the ladies of the party had some employment for the 
 fingers. Mrs. Wallace had brought her knitting, Mrs. 
 Herbert was sewing on a shirt, and on Ellen's lap lay a 
 half-stitched wristband, which had just been put down 
 24*
 
 282 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 at the request of Charles, that she might sew a ball for him. 
 Mr. Wallace loved children, and was very observant of 
 them. For some minutes he had silently watched Ellen, 
 interested by the patience with which she had listened to 
 the manifold directions of both her cousins, and once, when 
 her work seemed nearly completed, had taken it all out, to 
 make some alterations which had occurred to George as 
 desirable. As she gave Charles the ball and resumed her 
 wristband, Mr. Wallace said, " Ellen, do you remember at 
 what time you came here ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; in May last." 
 
 " But what time in May ?" 
 
 " I do not know what day of the month, sir," said Ellen, 
 looking up with some surprise at her friend. 
 
 " It was the tenth of May," said Mr. Wallace ; " and 
 now do yoi^know what day of the month this is ?" 
 
 " The tenth of November, sir, I believe." 
 
 " You are right, it is the tenth, and your six months of 
 trial are finished. You can now fairly judge between your 
 home here and in H ; and as I shall be obliged to re 
 turn to H in a week or two, on the same business 
 
 which caused my visit there in the spring, if you desire to 
 return, we can again be fellow-travellers. What say you 
 to it, Ellen ?" 
 
 Ellen glanced rapidly at her Aunt Herbert, and meeting 
 her eyes fixed on her earnestly, tenderly, turned hers as 
 quickly to the floor. She remained silent, but her cheek, 
 now red, now pale, and the quivering motion of her lips, 
 showed her agitation. 
 
 " Speak, my love," said Mrs. Herbert, laying her hand 
 on Ellen's, " speak just as you feel. You have a perfect 
 right to choose your home, and whatever the choice may 
 be, none can complain." 
 
 " Oh, Ellen," began Charles, who did not altogether ap 
 prove of his mother's neutrality, but a look from Mrs. Her 
 bert silenced him. 
 
 Ellen opened her lips more than once as if to speak, but 
 seemed unable to utter a word. Suddenly she turned again 
 to her aunt, and passing her arms around her neck, hid her 
 face upon her bosom. Mrs. Herbert folded her arms around 
 her, and in a voice which in spite of herself faltered, asked, 
 " Do you stay with us, Ellen ?"
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 283 
 
 "Yes," said Ellen, looking up with a face on which 
 there were both smiles and tears. 
 
 George seized her hand and shook it warmly, while 
 Charles shouted for joy ; and in the exuberance of his de 
 light, threw his ball first to the ceiling and then across the 
 room, making it pass in its second transit so near Mrs. 
 Wallace's head that the old lady started and dropped her 
 knitting. 
 
 " And what shall I tell Mary, Ellen ?" asked -Mr. Wal 
 lace. 
 
 " That she must come to me, sir." 
 
 " I shall say that you have riot forgotten her." 
 
 " Forgotten Mary !" exclaimed Ellen ; " oh no tell her 
 I never thought so much of her goodness to me or loved 
 her so dearly as I do now. Oh, how happy I shall be when 
 she comes! but I cannot leave Aunt Herbert," and Ellen 
 again put her arm around her aunt's neck. 
 
 " You are my daughter now, and daughters, you know, 
 do not leave their mothers willingly even for their sisters," 
 said Mrs. Herbert, with an affectionate smile. 
 
 Ellen returned the smile as she answered, " Yes, and 
 that is not all." 
 
 " What more is there, Ellen ?" asked Mr. Wallace. 
 
 " Why, I first learned to be happy here, sir ; and I am 
 afraid if I went away, that that " 
 
 "That you would forget the lesson?" inquired Mr. Wal 
 lace. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " There is no danger of that, I think, Ellen it is a les 
 son you have learned very thoroughly," said Mrs. Her 
 bert ; " and it is one," she added, " not easily forgotten." 
 
 Something more than a year had now elapsed since Mr. 
 Villars' departure for the South, and still his return was de 
 layed. He now wrote that he hoped by the next spring to 
 bring the business which had taken him there to a prosper 
 ous conclusion. The property which he was endeavoring 
 to recover had risen in value of late, and should he be suc 
 cessful, Mary and Ellen would possess fortune sufficient 
 for all their reasonable wants. But as Mr. Villars, though 
 hopeful, was not certain of success, he was still unwilling 
 that Mary should leave H. for her Aunt Herbert's, thus 
 relinquishing the employment she had already received
 
 282 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 at the request of Charles, that she might sew a ball for him. 
 Mr. Wallace loved children, and was very observant of 
 them. For some minutes he had silently watched Ellen, 
 interested by the patience with which she had listened to 
 the manifold directions of both her cousins, and once, when 
 her work seemed nearly completed, had taken it all out, to 
 make some alterations which had occurred to George as 
 desirable. As she gave Charles the ball and resumed her 
 wristband, Mr. Wallace said, " Ellen, do you remember at 
 what time you came here ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; in May last." 
 
 " But what time in May ?" 
 
 " I do not know what day of the month, sir," said Ellen, 
 looking up with some surprise at her friend. 
 
 " It was the tenth of May," said Mr. Wallace ; " and 
 now do you know what day of the month this is ?" 
 
 " The tenth of November, sir, I believe." 
 
 " You are right, it is the tenth, and your six months of 
 trial are finished. You can now fairly judge between your 
 home here and in H ; and as I shall be obliged to re 
 turn to H in a week or two, on the same business 
 
 which caused my visit there in the spring, if you desire to 
 return, we can again be fellow-travellers. What say you 
 to it, Ellen ?" 
 
 Ellen glanced rapidly at her Aunt Herbert, and meeting 
 her eyes fixed on her earnestly, tenderly, turned hers as 
 quickly to the floor. She remained silent, but her cheek, 
 now red, now pale, and the quivering motion of her lips, 
 showed her agitation. 
 
 " Speak, my love," said Mrs. Herbert, laying her hand 
 on Ellen's, " speak just as you feel. You have a perfect 
 right to choose your home, and whatever the choice may 
 be, none can complain." 
 
 " Oh, Ellen," began Charles, who did not altogether ap 
 prove of his mother's neutrality, but a look from Mrs. Her 
 bert silenced him. 
 
 Ellen opened her lips more than once as if to speak, but 
 seemed unable to utter a word. Suddenly she turned again 
 to her aunt, and passing her arms around her neck, hid her 
 face upon her bosom. Mrs. Herbert folded her arms around 
 her, and in a voice which in spite of herself faltered, asked, 
 " Do you stay with us, Ellen ?"
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 283 
 
 "Yes," said Ellen, looking up with a face on which 
 there were both smiles and tears. 
 
 George seized her hand and shook it warmly, while 
 Charles shouted for joy ; and in the exuberance of his de 
 light, threw his ball first to the ceiling and then across the 
 room, making it pass in its second transit so near Mrs. 
 Wallace's head that the old lady started and dropped her 
 knitting. 
 
 " And what shall I tell Mary, Ellen ?" asked -Mr. Wal 
 lace. 
 
 " That she must come to me, sir." 
 
 " I shall say that you have not forgotten her." 
 
 " Forgotten Mary !" exclaimed Ellen ; " oh no tell her 
 I never thought so much of her goodness to me or loved 
 her so dearly as I do now. Oh, how happy I shall be when 
 she comes ! but I cannot leave Aunt Herbert," and Ellen 
 again put her arm around her aunt's neck. 
 
 " You are my daughter now, and daughters, you know, 
 do not leave their mothers willingly even for their sisters," 
 said Mrs. Herbert, with an affectionate smile. 
 
 Ellen returned the smile as she answered, " Yes, and 
 that is not all." 
 
 " What more is there, Ellen ?" asked Mr. Wallace. 
 
 " Why, I first learned to be happy here, sir ; and I am 
 afraid if I went away, that that " 
 
 "That you would forget the lesson?" inquired Mr. Wal 
 lace. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " There is no danger of that, I think, Ellen it is a les 
 son you have learned very thoroughly," said Mrs. Her 
 bert ; " and it is one," she added, " not easily forgotten." 
 
 Something more than a year had now elapsed since Mr. 
 Villars' departure for the South, and still his return was de 
 layed. He now wrote that he hoped by the next spring to 
 bring the business which had taken him there to a prosper 
 ous conclusion. The property which he was endeavoring 
 to recover had risen in value of late, and should he be suc 
 cessful, Mary and Ellen would possess fortune sufficient 
 for all their reasonable wants. But as Mr. Villars, though 
 hopeful, was not certain of success, he was still unwilling 
 that Mary should leave H. for her Aunt Herbert's, thus 
 relinquishing the employment she had already received
 
 284 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 there, while for the same reason he rejoiced that Ellen was 
 under the care of one so capable of giving to her a tho 
 roughly accomplished education as was Mrs. Herbert. 
 
 Winter passed away ; spring again brought flowers and 
 perfume and balmy airs to all and to Ellen bright hopes. 
 Mr. Villars had written lately more sanguinely than ever 
 of his success , at any rate, when he wrote last, in a week 
 the lawsuit on which all depended would be decided. He 
 would then return, and then Mary and Ellen would meet. 
 You have seen that during the year of their separation a 
 great change had taken place in Ellen's character, and 
 you will readily believe that there had also been some al 
 teration in her personal appearance. She was now four 
 teen, and she had grown tall and womanly in figure, while 
 there was far more of the glad-heartedness of early child 
 hood shining in her face, than could have been seen there 
 a year before. Her heavy indolent movements, too, were 
 replaced by a springy, elastic step. In a word, Ellen was 
 happy, and that happiness showed itself in words, and looks, 
 and tones. No sullen resentment clouded her brow, no 
 angry passion made her voice harsh, no bitter self-reproach 
 for unjust thoughts and unkind speeches lay heavy upon 
 her heart ; all looked kindly on her, and Ellen no longer 
 feared that she was not loved. 
 
 It was about three weeks after the reception of that let 
 ter from Mr. Villars to which we have alluded, that re 
 turning from an afternoon's ramble with her cousin, Ellen, 
 on entering the piazza, saw through the open parlor win 
 dow a gentleman's head. Her heart beat quickly it 
 might be her Uncle Villars ; she approached nearer the 
 window, and looked anxiously in there was a lady, but too 
 tall for Mary. Ellen forgot that Mary was seventeen, and 
 had had a year in which to grow, since she saw her. The 
 lady turned her head the next moment the sisters were in 
 each other's arms. " My own dear Mary !" " My dar 
 ling Ellen !" were their only words their feelings, who 
 shall describe ? 
 
 " And, Uncle Villars, you can live in your own house 
 again, now, and have poor Mrs. Merrill back can you 
 not ?" asked Ellen, after Mr. Villars had announced that 
 he had gained the object of his southern journey. 
 
 " Yes, Ellen, for it is no longer necessary for me to be
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 285 
 
 so careful of my expenditures, since you and Mary no 
 longer want any assistance from me . The house has been 
 unoccupied for some months, and Mrs. Merrill is already 
 there getting every thing in readiness for us against we 
 return." 
 
 Ellen seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looking 
 up with a merry smile, she said, " Uncle Villars, I have a 
 puzzle that is more difficult than the fox and the goose, 
 and nobody can help me with it but you and Aunt Her 
 bert." 
 
 " Well, what is it, Ellen ?" 
 
 " Why, how am I to stay with Aunt Herbert and George 
 and Charles, and yet go with you and Mary ? One thing is 
 certain, I cannot part with any of you." 
 
 "I have thougnt of this myself, Ellen, and I have a plan 
 for the accomplishment of your wishes, if you can win 
 your Aunt Herbert's consent to it." 
 
 "What is it?" exclaimed Ellen, eagerly. 
 
 " That she should remove to H., which was her own 
 early home, and which offers much greater advantages for 
 the education of her sons and their entrance into life, than 
 their present situation." 
 
 " That would be delightful," said Ellen. 
 
 The day after this conversation, Mrs. Herbert was walk 
 ing with Mr. Villars over to the Dairy Farm, as the resi 
 dence of Farmer Smith was called. In passing the bridge 
 she related to him the circumstances attending the fall and 
 rescue of Charles the great distress of Ellen, and the un 
 remitting and successful efforts she had since made to over 
 come that evil nature which had so nearly produced such 
 fatal consequences. 
 
 " Since that time," continued Mrs. Herbert, " though I 
 have seen Ellen's temper tried, and her anger excited, I 
 have only known that it was so by the sudden sparkle of 
 the eye, or the quick flush of the cheek. She knows the 
 danger of yielding for a moment, and you can see on such 
 occasions that her whole nature is aroused to resist the 
 evil, to subdue the passion. Of late these conflicts with 
 herself are very rare, for she grows every day more gen 
 tle and forbearing. I cannot express to you, Mr. Villars, 
 how dear she has become to me. To her cousins she is a 
 patient, affectionate sister, to me a tender and devoted
 
 286 ELLEN LESLIE. 
 
 daughter ; our home will long be darkened by her depart 
 ure. How can I let her go from us yet how can I ask 
 you and her sister to give her up !" 
 
 Mrs. Herbert spoke with deep emotion, and Mr. Villars 
 felt that there could not be a more fortunate moment for 
 his proposal. When Mrs. Herbert first heard it, she shook 
 her head, and looking around her said, " I cannot part with 
 this place, Mr. Villars, it has too many endearing associa 
 tions." 
 
 " If by parting with it you mean selling it, there is no 
 necessity for your doing so ; let Mr. Smith, whom you know 
 to be an honest man, continue to farm it as he now does : 
 you can even spend part or the whole of every summer 
 here, for travelling costs little now. The board which, as 
 the guardian of Mary and Ellen, I should feel bound to pay 
 you, would meet any difference in the expense of your 
 
 establishment here and in H ; and the advantages which 
 
 your care would ensure to them, I would endeavor to repay 
 to your boys in the direction of their education and the ad 
 vancement of their objects in life." 
 
 And Mrs. Herbert consented, and Ellen's puzzle was 
 solved. 
 
 It was decided that Mrs. Herbert should remove in the 
 following October. In the mean time Mary and Ellen 
 would both remain with her, while Mr. Villars would re 
 turn to H , to make the necessary arrangements for 
 
 her reception there. Mrs. Merrill had been delighted at 
 being recalled as Mr. Villars' housekeeper ; her happiness 
 was complete when she learned that he was again to live 
 alone. Mr. Villars took care, however, that Mrs. Herbert's 
 house should be so near his own that no weather should 
 prevent daily intercourse between her family and himself. 
 
 In this house, when I next visited H , I found my 
 
 young friends established. 
 
 Ellen I soon discovered was as great a favorite with her 
 young companions, and as welcome a guest at their gather 
 ings, as her sister Mary. Calling at Mrs. Herbert's one 
 morning, I found Ellen and Mary dressed for a walk, which 
 I insisted they should not give up on account of my visit ; 
 so after chatting a while with me, they went out. After 
 they reached the door Ellen turned around, saying earnest 
 ly, " Remember, Uncle Villars."
 
 ELLEN LESLIE. 287 
 
 " Yes, gipsy," said Mr. Villars playfully ; " and do you 
 remember that I mean to say no to your very next request, 
 just to prove that I have a will of my own." 
 
 Ellen did not seem much disturbed by this threat, for she 
 laughed gayly as she closed the door. 
 
 " I suspect, sir," said I, "that it is difficult to tell which 
 has most influence now, the sun or the wind," alluding to 
 the names which he had formerly given the sisters. 
 
 " No no," replied he, " the truth is, they are both suns 
 now, and the consequence is, that they make me do just 
 what they please." 
 
 THE END. 


 
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