Stories of a Governess

STORIES
OF A GOVERNESS.

BY
MISS ANNIE FISLER.

NEW YORK:
PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
AND CHURCH BOOK DEPOSITORY,
762 BROADWAY.

1866.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by the General Protestant Episcopal Sunday School Union and Church Book Society, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.

PUBLISHED THROUGH THE
OFFERINGS OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL OF
TRINITY CHURCH,
PITTSBURGH, PA.

IN REMEMBRANCE
OF PLEASANT DAYS
AT “SOUTHSIDE.”

Stories of a Governess.

CHAPTER I.

The children had all been very eager about the new governess. They had sat full three minutes at a time, more than once, discoursing about her, wondering whether she was young or old, whether she was pretty or ugly, and whether she was cross or good-tempered. In short, there had been no end to their wonderings; but they could not agree, and so sat waiting full of curiosity till she should come down stairs.

Lillie sat on the floor in front of the grate, her chin on her hands, her eyes fixed on the bright fire. Frank was watching the door, in a very unnatural sort of quietness for a boy, with Tan curled up at his feet; and Jennie was nervously tearing off the corners of her book, since it had grown too dark to read it, thinking that Miss Lane was a very long time in taking off her cloak.

On the sofa lay a plump little darling, with a pair of dark soft eyes shining out of the stillness; one round rosy cheek rested upon her pretty brown hand, and the silky hair was tangled by her race with Tan on the piazza. Nobody knew what Rosie was thinking, for Rosie did not talk much—did not tell all the puzzles in her child-brain, though it was quite full of them, like any other child’s.

Outside, the wind had gone down, but the bare trees, the naked lawn, and the great wide stretch of waste land beyond that, looked bleak enough in the gathering gloom of the winter twilight. Softly fluttering down, like white birds, came a few light flakes of the first snow, and now and then the swaying back of a thick cedar-tree, showed a grave at its foot, receiving the downy covering. It was the resting place of the children’s mother; she had lain there a year, and the little ones had grown quite used to the sight of that which had once made their hearts ache for “poor mamma out in the cold.”

There was a wistful look in the little faces, and a yearning for love in the little hearts all unsatisfied, since the good mother had gone to rest; but none, even down to little Rosie, had forgotten the prayers she had taught them, nor to lift, night and morning, their innocent hands to the All-Father.

And now Tan had risen, snuffed about, gone from one child to another, pattering about on his soft paws, saying, “good night” to all. He sprang noiselessly upon the sofa, by Rosie’s head, and taking in his mouth a beautiful white kitten lying there, carried it off to his basket in the corner.

At this movement of Tan’s every child was on its feet, to witness this nightly performance, which afforded the lookers-on the most intense delight. Kitty submitted very quietly, as a matter of course, and the puppy trotted off as gravely as mother cat might have done. He put pussy to bed first, turning her over to her own side with his paws, if she encroached upon his, and then, ensconcing himself snugly in his corner of the basket, he winked himself to sleep with much satisfaction. When Tan had gone to sleep, the children grew tired of waiting again; but presently, a shout from Frank, who had gone to the window, roused them.

“There’s papa!” he cried, and in two seconds, all, even sleepy Rosie, were in the hall, waiting for his greeting. In they came, a joyous party, clinging to their papa’s arms and knees, claiming kisses and answers to a multitude of questions in one breath, forgetting their late interest in the new governess who stayed so long in her own room, and caring only to welcome him who claimed a double share of their love, now that they had no mother.

Jennie rang the bell, ordering James, when he answered it, rather imperiously, to take her father’s coat and to bring his slippers, bustling about uneasily, and overturning a light stand near her in her haste.

“Softly, Jennie daughter; not so much noise,” chided her papa, rubbing his hands before the blaze, as if he were glad to be at home again. Gently as the words were spoken, they brought tears to the eyes of the sensitive child, and she drew back with a shadow fallen upon her gladness.

With shy ecstasy Rosie was rubbing her brown face against her papa, much as pussy might have done; and Lillie performed a joyful dance with Tan, who had waked up with the commotion, holding him by the fore-paws, and endangering the costly vases by her romping. Frank was pouring out a history of the day with great glee, standing first upon one foot, then upon the other, winding up with:

“And Ben brought Miss Lane from the cars at half past four. We have not seen her yet. But papa—”

He stopped. There she was.

“How do you do, Mr. Graham? How do you do, children?” said a sweet voice, and they all, including Tan, became as mute as mice.

James came with candles, and then the examination began. Miss Lane was not old, neither was she very young; she was almost as small and slight as Jennie, and not at all pretty, as Frank declared more than once, though he liked to look at her face too.

She was dressed neatly and well; her collar shone, her hair shone, her teeth shone, her hands were almost lily white, and her step as light as the snow-fall out of doors. She had a quiet sort of grace that was very fascinating, and from the crown of her head to the sole of her small walking-shoe, stood before them the perfect lady.

CHAPTER II.

The breakfast bell had been rung, Miss Lane came in at its last tingle and saw the children waiting for her.

“Good morning! Where is your papa?”

“Gone: he goes to his office at six every morning, and doesn’t come home till evening,” answered Jennie.

“Who reads prayers?”

“No one, since mamma died.”

The lady stood silent a moment; a little tinge of red colored her cheek, and she did not trust her voice for a few seconds, lest it should tremble.

“I cannot,” was her first thought; “it is not my place; they may think it presuming.”

“I will,” was her next; “God has put it in my way; it is plainly my duty.” Then speaking aloud to Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper, she said calmly:

“If you will call in the servants, I will read prayers: I suppose Mr. Graham would not object.”

“Oh, no, ma’am.”

In a little time they came in and sat down, wondering at the new ways of the teacher, but joining in the prayers quite reverently, and as they went out again, casting curious glances at the pale quiet face of the reader. As for the children, their appetites were quite forgotten in this new and interesting study of the governess, and Jennie secretly determined to imitate her in her mode of eating. It was really a pleasure to watch the neat, graceful fingers at any work, and the children began to find and to feel something of that subtle charm in perfect grace and tact which mere beauty cannot supply. Though she spoke but little, and did not seem to watch them at all, not a word, not a motion, scarcely a glance of her new pupils escaped her. She was silently deciding upon the character of each.

After breakfast, the whole party ran to the windows, to admire the snow-fall; Miss Lane among the rest. It lay white and pure upon the lawn and the trees, and the sun sparkled over it.

“He giveth snow like wool, and scattereth the hoar-frost like ashes,” said the teacher.

“Who? God?” asked Rosie, who could not be content without caresses, and so had crept shily to the side of the teacher.

“Yes, and do you know why it is like wool?”

“Because it is white,” answered Frank, coming up softly, while the rest followed after a moment of hesitation, and closed round Miss Lane with bashful but eager glances.

“Yes, and for another reason. Because it is warm; it protects the tender wheat, keeps it alive in the ground till the spring opens. It is like your cloaks and overcoats, only so much softer, so much more beautiful.”

“Warm? snow warm? I thought it was cold.”

“Persons have been saved from freezing by burying themselves in snow.”

“Do you know stories?” questioned Rosie, with a flush over her brown face.

“Yes, a great many. I will tell you one about a person who had no bed but one of snow for many nights.”

“Did you know him? did you ever see him?” were the eager questions; and the children crouched at her feet, forgetting their reserve.

“Yes, very, very well, all my life. This person, this gentleman, when he was young like you, cared only for books, books all the time, and wandering about over all the rocks, through all the woods in the neighborhood. After a while, when he grew older, he wanted to travel. He went to Asia, to Africa, to Europe—he saw all the great world, but he forgot God.”

“Forgot God! oh, how dreadful!”

“Forgot God; forgot to love him and pray to him—tried to live without him. But God remembered him. He never forgets any one, you know—not even the smallest bird or worm. He counts the tiniest blade of grass.”

“By and by a very sad thing happened to him. A beautiful lady whom he had loved a long, long time, and who was to have been his wife, died suddenly. She was deaf, quite deaf, but so very patient and sweet, living such a holy life, so near to God, that all her goodness shone in her face, making it so lovely, so radiant, that no one could look at her without loving her, and wondering if angels were not like her. She was lost at sea. She had been in England with her father, and was returning to America, when the ship was lost. They both went down together, and when this gentleman heard it, he seemed as if he could never be happy again.

“He looked quite broken-hearted; but the taking of her who was to have been his wife to the rest of the blessed did not seem to draw him any nearer to God, and after a while he wandered off again, and was not heard of for years. He lived for months near the shore of the Gulf of California, alone, excepting the company of two pet seals, which he learned to love dearly. He used to go out on the sand and watch the seals there. Sometimes the young ones, when left by their parents on the beach, would make the most pitiful moaning and crying, like a little child in pain. It used to melt his heart to hear them; he said it made him think of the voice of the lost, crying out of the sea; and so his melancholy grew deeper and darker than ever. He would have stayed there perhaps till he died; but his seals were lost, and then, in his loneliness, he roamed away again.

“He settled at last in New Mexico, and though he lived so much alone, his gentleness and kindliness won him many friends, and he began to think he had found a home. But at length he longed to return, and when he set out he sped towards the mountains. He dared not travel through the valleys, for fear of the Indians, but had to keep out of their sight, if he wished to preserve his life. The mountains were covered with snow. The cold was bitter, and he knew that many days must pass before he could reach a safe shelter; but his heart did not fail him, for he began in those fearful, solitary nights to beg for God’s aid, to think of him as he had not done in years before.

“Every night he lay down in the snow, hungry and tired, for it was dangerous to shoot game. If the Indians had heard the report of his rifle, they would have been upon him quickly; and he suffered severely for want of food. His shoes gave out too, but not his courage and trust in God, which had all come back to him as he lay under the stars, in his snowy bed, so awfully alone, shut out from humanity. On the thirteenth day, he limped into a fort, almost barefooted, hollow-eyed and gaunt, very weak, but joyful over his deliverance, and, with a new heart, praising God.”

“Where is he now?” asked Rosie, when Miss Lane paused.

“Gone to rest,” she answered solemnly.

By this time the hour for school had arrived, and all were eager to begin the work of learning, so they gladly followed the teacher as she led the way up stairs to the school-room.

CHAPTER III.

Before many days the children had learned that Miss Lane intended to be obeyed; so the idea of resisting her authority gradually faded out of their minds, if they had ever entertained it. She went about her duties in her quiet, graceful way, showing in every action that she worked for God, and made the thought of her accountability to Him the rule of her life.

There was a promptness and decision in her manner that irresistibly drew every child into her way, and very soon there was no complaint of tardiness or carelessness in the school-room. Jennie’s hair was brushed smoothly, because Miss Lane’s satin braids made her ashamed of her tangled locks. Lillie thought of her own ten ragged finger-nails with a blush, when the rosy tips of her teacher’s fingers glided over the piano-keys; and Frank scraped his shoes before coming into the parlor, because he had once left a stain on the clear gray of her dress with his muddy boots; he could not forget her distressed look as she noticed it, and reformed accordingly.

A taste for beautiful things began to be developed in their minds too, and the stars, the sunset, and a snow-fall were seen with new eyes. They learned, too, to know that God was about them, around them, above them; that there was no thought in their heart but he knew it altogether; that he must be the Guide in the daily walk of his baptized children. So the days went on in content.

There came sometimes a girl of Jennie’s age to visit the children; Mary Noel was her name; her parents lived on the opposite shore of the lake, about a quarter of a mile from Mr. Graham’s, and were very careless, worldly people, keeping but a loose watch over their child.

Miss Lane did not fancy her from the first, and disapproved of the intimacy with her young charges; but she had never seen anything positively evil in the child’s behavior, and therefore could not forbid it. But one afternoon, while Mary Noel was there, something occurred which decided her to prevent all intercourse between the children.

Lillie and Mary in passing Miss Lane’s door found it ajar, and looked in curiously at the pictures, curious boxes and books that adorned it, all arranged with most exquisite neatness and taste.

“Let us go in,” proposed Mary. “She is not there, is she?”

“No; but I would rather go in when she is there,” answered Lillie.

“Well, I’d like to see those pictures; come,” and she pushed the door open.

“I don’t think Miss Lane would like it,” persisted Lillie.

“Why? what need you care? The room’s in your father’s house.”

“I don’t think it would be quite right, quite polite; Miss Lane is so precise.”

“I know; such a stiff old maid, too. You’ll all be just like her. Well, I’m going in. I wonder if there are many pictures in that album; I’m going to look.”

“Come out, Mary; we had better not disturb anything. I am sure Miss Lane would be displeased.”

“You all act as if you were afraid of her. She isn’t mistress here yet. Mamma said may-be she’d be your stepmother sometime; how would you like that?”

The child’s face became scarlet; she stamped her foot.

“It is not true; it is a wicked story. You are very bad to say so. I’ll ask papa;” and Lillie sat down in the window with tears in her eyes.

In the mean time, Mary was examining one by one the contents of the room, opening books and boxes, and peering about, full of curiosity.

“Oh, Lillie, here is this bottle; it is so delicious! Oh, just smell—Cologne! And isn’t the bottle pretty?”

“Beautiful!” exclaimed Lillie, springing up and taking it out of her hand quickly—too quickly; the choice ornament fell from her grasp, and lay broken in two pieces upon the floor, while the odor of the Cologne water filled the room.

Lillie’s cheeks crimsoned; she stood with clasped hands and loud beating heart, surveying the fragments.

“What shall we do?” she exclaimed.

“Let us go away—she’ll find the bottle broken; we need not say anything. She will not know that you did it.”

So, conscience-smitten and miserable, the little girl followed her tempter down stairs; her first thought being an earnest desire to escape the blame. Lillie was nervous and sensitive and very timid; the idea of her teacher’s displeasure overshadowed all the sunshine of that day, and made it indeed a time of wretchedness. She trembled with terror when she heard Miss Lane’s step, and shrunk back with a guilty flush whenever she caught her eye, growing pale and chill at the sound of her voice, lest the dreaded question should be asked, and contending with her ever rebuking conscience which urged her to confession.

“Ah!” she thought, “if I had only not given up at first—if I had only never touched it—it was so wrong. Mamma used to tell us that we were always punished for doing wrong, even if no one saw us: and now I know that is why I broke the vase. Miss Lane cannot trust me when she knows it; and, oh, she said she would rather we troubled her every minute with mischief than to see us do one dishonorable thing. She will be sure to find it out too, oh, dear! and I never can tell her; it frightens me to think of it. What shall I do? I am so unhappy;” and the child buried her head in the sofa cushions, sobbing aloud.

By and by she crept into the parlor, quite pale and subdued, worn out by the ceaseless reproaches of her conscience, and waited in much sadness for her papa’s coming. The children were in great glee watching the snow as it came softly down, and listening to the loud howling of the wind round the house, happy in their good home, the loving hearts around them, and the bright firelight.

How little they knew of the great world, with the sin, suffering, and death in it; of the dying, despairing thousands on God’s earth, crying out to him in sore pain and need, the day of their rejoicing long since passed!

Presently there was a shout, as Miss Lane came at a quick pace up the walk, struggling against the wind and storm, holding her cloak fast around her. She came in merrily, laughing, and with a vivid color in both cheeks.

“It is perfectly delightful,” she cried, as soon as she saw the children. “How happy is the dog rolling in the snow!”

“Where have you been? We were lonesome; we’ve been hunting you everywhere.”

“I have been to visit my Sunday scholars, and I came round by the post-office for my letters, and I have two such pleasant ones.”

“Did you go to see all the scholars? And did you find out who it was that sat on the end of the bench last Sunday?”

“Yes; her name is Phœbe Birch, and I went to her house. She has a stepmother who is not kind to her. Her father was sitting in a corner of the room; he had been drinking; and when I went in, Phœbe was crying. Her eyes were quite red and swollen; she brightened at the sight of me; but I was too much afraid of both the father and mother to talk much to her, poor child! At last I asked her if she would not come regularly to Sunday-school, and gave her a little Prayer-book, which seemed to make her very happy. The mother scolded and said, ‘She was good for nothing already, and she did not think going to Sunday-school would make her any better.’ I told her that I hoped it would. But when I had got out of the close little room, from that hard scowling woman and the drunken man, into the fresh air, I could scarcely bear to think of poor little Phœbe’s spending all her life there.”

Miss Lane looked round the beautiful rooms, her eye glancing through an open door to the glittering table awaiting them with its delicacies, and she sighed heavily. Her cloak lay on the sofa; she was holding her hat by one string, and Lillie was trembling, lest any moment she might go up to her own room to put them away, and so discover the mischief that had been done. What would she have given to live over that day again, that she might have left that undone?

It was too late then, and her face blanched as Miss Lane, gathering up her things, went gaily up stairs to brush her hair. In a little while she came down again, and Lillie’s watchful eyes saw—as no doubt she expected—a change in her face immediately.

“Has any one been in my room to-day?” she inquired. There was a chorus of Noes, and she continued:

“Some one or some thing has knocked my Cologne bottle off the bureau, and I found it lying shattered on the floor.”

“It must have been Sallie,” said Jennie, “she is so careless; she spilled all the ink in my bottle on the parlor carpet yesterday.”

“What were you doing with ink in the parlor?” asked Miss Lane.

“I was writing my exercises: Mary Noel and Lillie made so much noise in the hall that I could not write in my room.”

“Don’t go there to write again; it is not the proper place; and I wish none of you to have anything to do with Mary Noel; she is not a proper companion for you, I am sure. When she comes here to ask you to walk with her again, just tell her I do not allow you to go. I must speak to Sallie about breaking my things; there is no occasion for such accidents.”

She walked toward the door. Lillie started up to stop her; but the words died on her lip. She could not utter them; she could not bear to see the expression of disapproval gathering upon her teacher’s face, to know her trust was forfeited, and feel the punishment deserved.

“What did Sallie say?” asked Jennie, when she returned.

“She says she never touched the bureau, and seemed much hurt at my suspecting her,” answered Miss Lane, sitting down by the window with a grave air, and looking out upon the snow in silence.

“You need not believe her,” continued Jennie, “she is not true. Mrs. Hall can’t teach her to be.”

“I have good reason to believe her,” was the answer; and Mr. Graham’s arrival at that moment caused the children to rush with a shout to meet him, forgetting Sallie and the Cologne bottle.

CHAPTER IV.

“But if you go to-night, Miss Lane, we cannot finish Evangeline.”

“Why not, Jennie? You can read aloud to the rest.”

“But I don’t like reading aloud.”

“Neither do I like reading aloud. I do a great many things I don’t like to do.”

“I’ll read it to myself—then the rest can do the same.”

“I don’t like to read aloud a thing that I have read again and again. I don’t like to play games that you little ones like. I don’t care to play for you, when each one can do it for himself.”

Miss Lane looked at Jennie gravely. The little girl’s lip began to quiver, her eyes filled.

“Oh, Miss Lane!” she faltered.

“Suppose I were never willing to do anything for your pleasure, Jennie, just because I did not fancy it, wouldn’t you think me a little selfish?”

The tears were rolling over Jennie’s cheeks now, and Miss Lane sat in silence, wishing the child’s sensitiveness were not so exquisite. The gentlest chiding touched the quick—it was almost a cruelty to rebuke, even when rebuke was needed. That word “selfish” had set Jennie’s heart-strings to quivering; and thoughtlessness, as much as anything else, had prompted her first speech; so she sat downcast, bearing her pain in silence, while her teacher was almost as much grieved as she.

“I think it would not be quite kind to sit alone and read to yourself all the evening, when the rest are so anxious to finish the story, and you know but one can have the book at a time.”

There was no answer; but Jennie had forgotten her great repugnance to reading aloud in remembering that only the day before, Miss Lane had left her book for an hour, to tell baby stories and read Mother Goose to Rosie, when she was lying peevish and sick in bed.

“She could not have liked it,” pondered the child, and the first dim consciousness of duty rose in her mind to puzzle her. Sorely troubled was Jennie; she did not fancy giving up her own will in anything. She had an instinctive dislike to law and order, to getting up early, setting things to right, and losing her own pleasure.

A little flash of light seemed let into her soul, and all her daily wrong-doing lay clear before her. She read selfishness on all, or at the best, thoughtlessness for others’ pleasure. Before her like a picture, she saw her dear mother stretched on her patient bed of pain, smiling ever to keep sadness out of the hearts of her little ones, and fading slowly day by day out of their beautiful bright world into what seemed loneliness, chilliness, darkness to Jennie in her fresh youth. Now and then the sweet weak voice had begged her daughter to read the Word of Life to her as she went through the valley of the Shadow of Death; and many times this seemed a wearisome task. How glad the child would have been to remember having volunteered once to cheer her mother’s waiting-time with the words of Jesus! Such anguish as it was then to know that many times the mild request for a Psalm or the lessons of the day had been met by a frowning, fretful compliance. Too late, too late, thought Jennie with anguish and yearning for

“The touch of the vanished hand,

And the sound of the voice that was still.”

And almost the last words that dear mother had uttered were:

“Jennie, be good to the little ones, dear—patient, loving. They will have no mother, and the world is dreary without love, my child; give it to them, all that you can, and fill my place.”

It had been long ago in her child life, when time is counted by hours and days, and we think a year so long, since her mother went to rest, but it was not till that hour that the meaning of her mother’s words came to her. There had never seemed to be much need for the exercise of her care over the little ones; so she thought. It seemed as if there were nothing she could do—at least nothing that she liked to do—teaching the Catechism, reading aloud, telling stories and such things were so disagreeable, and she could not have patience with the little ones.

While Jennie was sitting at the window, looking out on the winter scene and thinking, with the tears drying on her cheek, Miss Lane had gone to the piano, and was playing softly—she was singing too, in a low voice, and the silent darkness was creeping over the lawn under the trees and into the room, gathering shadows on the walls and settling stilly over the fields and sky.

“Broken-hearted, lone and tearful,

By that cross of anguish fearful,

Stood the Mother by her Son.”

Deep and touching was the voice, as were the words, and a feeling of awe, pain, and strange longing love filled the heart of the child, and her soul went out in prayer to the Saviour who died for her, to keep her in his ways and make her spirit white.

That same evening, after Miss Lane had gone to stay with poor dying Phœbe Birch, Jennie finished the story to her little brother and sisters; played her papa’s favorite songs, and went to bed infinitely rewarded for her sacrifice in the “peace of mind which passeth understanding.”

The dreaded messenger who walks among us unseen at all hours had called for the lonely child in her comfortless home, and Phœbe’s soul was passing to the land of rest, where many saints had gone before.

The morning before, Phœbe had gone down stairs to make the fire and prepare breakfast. It was a chilly morning, and the child’s garments were very thin, but she was very happy. She had a friend. In all the wide world, a few weeks before, there had been no one to greet her pleasantly, no one to care whether she lived or died, and her poor heart was aching, aching all the time for that love which every child claims as its right.

All day long it was toil, and wearying at fault-finding, sometimes weeping at blows from her drunken father or her cruel stepmother, till there seemed neither rest nor brightness for her on earth.

At last, one Sunday, as she stood wistfully watching the children going into Sunday-school, an impulse to follow them seized her. So, trembling and with flushed cheeks, she glided through the door and sat down on the first vacant seat.

How beautiful it all was! The children were singing; and into the sensitive, wounded spirit of the child crept a strange, soothing peace, as if the great world of pain and sin were shut out from her forever.

Heaven must be like that, she thought, and her eyes rested on a fair face near her with a sort of reverent admiration. It was a face patient and calm, with a touch of sadness in it though the eyes looked ever upward, and the lips smiled. The brow was clear and broad and white, the hair bright and smooth, and children’s faces turned lovingly to meet the gentle glances cast upon them from those unclouded blue eyes.

For one moment, this lady with her grace and exceeding refinement, passing her delicate fingers over the organ keys, seemed as far off from the child as the angels in heaven; but when her soft voice had inquired Phœbe’s name, when those lily hands held her own brown hand, some of Phœbe’s awe vanished, and a warm, grateful love sprang up in its place.

And after that the working, suffering days never seemed so long. Somehow, the thought of Sunday brightened all the week, and Phœbe lifted up her heart. Sometimes, indeed many times, Miss Lane came to see her and gave her books. Once or twice the child had spent an hour in her kind friend’s own dainty room. And when at last she became “a member of Christ, the child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven,” Miss Lane stood near to encourage, and ever since had been pointing out the way in which she should walk.

No one could dream then, how inexpressibly sweet and strong was this tie that bound her to her benefactress. No one knew how the thought of this earnest love warmed and lighted that cold room in the gloomy December morning. And but little could the outer world of those more fortunate than she, guess how exquisitely beautiful were the thoughts and feelings of this poor, untaught child, whose one joy had changed the earth into a Paradise.

So she lighted the fire and sat fanning it into a blaze with her apron, thinking, with a thrill of delight, that to-day Miss Lane was to begin teaching her to knit fancy knitting. She had promised to find sale for any articles that Phœbe might make; and such a bright vision rose before her fancy that she clapped her hands and laughed aloud—such a picture of a winter cloak, a hood, and a little offering to the Sunday School, which it burned her cheek to think she had never been able to give. And on Christmas morning she would go herself to Lyle’s to buy a bouquet for Miss Lane, one made up of delicate, pure flowers like the lady herself, with heliotrope and geranium leaves.

Inside of her Prayer-book was a withered, faded blossom, which Miss Lane had given her weeks ago, and told her it meant, “I love you,” and Phœbe kissed it night and morning, and many times in the day, if hard words brought tears to her eyes or tempted her to lose her trust and hopefulness. It all came back when she touched this talisman, or read, “Let not your heart be troubled.”

She used to think a great many strange thoughts, these lonely days, when sometimes, for many hours, there was no human friend to whom she could speak, and only the wide, blank snow, with the leafless trees waving over it, for her to look out upon.

She liked to look at the sky, and watch the clouds at sunset, for God seemed just beyond them, and her loneliness left her when she remembered that He was her Father, and a beautiful hope was in her heart, that she, the believing child, might save that erring, earthly parent.

So, when the blaze sprang up, Phœbe, under the influence of its warmth, grew drowsy and fell asleep, and dreamed. While she dreamed, the messenger came; slowly the flame crept towards her, and a spark rested on her cotton dress; it glowed and spread and crackled, then burst into a flame and bathed her in a stream of fire. Her father and mother were asleep up stairs, but her dreadful, agonized screams soon reached their ears.

When they burst into the room, the panting, trembling, shrieking child was rolling on the floor, blackened, burnt, a pitiful sight for human eyes. She had wrapped a piece of carpet about her, and so put out the dreadful fire; but the agony of those few seconds who can tell?

She bore it all, the dreadful, sickening dressing of the burns, her faintness, and the coarse words of the step-mother, who reproached her even then; she bore it because Miss Lane held her hand, whispered her words of Jesus, and cooled her brow, praying God to help her bear it. He did help her, and a wonderful patience and sweetness came into her soul, so that heaven seemed to lie not far off.

She could not bear, at first, that her comforter should leave her, but one word on the duty of resignation dried her tears, and she waited in calmness till her dear friend came to her again.

Every moment that she could spare from her duties, Miss Lane devoted to the sufferer. Her soft fingers soothed when none others had the power, and when the pain was torture she sang the young girl into quietness, lifting her soul to God in prayer, and cheering her when the fear of death was strong. So two days passed, and a second night of watching came.

CHAPTER V.

Lillie had never spent such miserable days as those two when the warfare with her conscience was waging continually. Everything went wrong, nothing gave her any pleasure, she was thoroughly miserable, and so irritable that she had to be sent two or three times each day to her room for cross answers and ill conduct.

She knew quite well that she could have no peace till she confessed her fault, she saw that she could not do right till that spot on her usual truth and sincerity had been washed out. But timidity held her back; she kept putting off the evil day, and rose each morning with a sense of heaviness and depression about her, resolving to get rid of the weight before another night came.

She could not pray, for while she said the words she knew the act was mockery, because she was continuing in wilful sin. So, this safeguard being removed, the child fancied herself falling into sins innumerable, and darkening all the hours of the day with the shadow of one fault.

Two or three times she had gone to Miss Lane, intending to confess; but when there, the words died on her lips, and remained unsaid—such a trembling and terror seized her. She tried to persuade herself that opportunity was wanting, as her teacher was so much engaged with the dying Phœbe that she was only seen at meals and in school hours; but that was poor comfort.

The very next afternoon Lillie determined to meet her teacher in the hall, and tell her the whole truth; but when she heard Miss Lane going quickly down the steps, her feet almost refused to move, and when she opened the hall door, Frank was there, kneeling on the rug, and fitting on the small over-shoe for his idol.

She could not speak before Frank; he would consider her so mean, her cheek crimsoned at the thought, and a glimpse at Miss Lane’s pale, sad face frightened her still more; it looked so fixed and settled, so far off from things of earth, that she could not bear the idea of those eyes falling on her in shocked surprise and reproach.

She drew back, the soft “good-bye” was uttered, the slight figure flitted through the door, and in a second was skimming down the lawn with quick, graceful motions. It was too late!

About half-an-hour later, as she and Jennie were drawing in the school-room, the latter, looking out of the window, exclaimed—

“There’s Mary Noel! What brings her here, I wonder?”

Lillie was putting her drawing materials away hurriedly, a look of eagerness taking the place of the weary expression that had before rested upon her face, when Jennie continued—

“You must not go down, you know, Miss Lane told us not to have anything to do with her.”

“I don’t care!” exclaimed Lillie.

“For shame, Lillie! I’ll tell papa. What would he say if he heard you speak so?”

“I’m not going to sit still, shut up in the house all day. Besides, what is the harm? Mary Noel don’t hurt anybody.”

“It is wrong to do what your teacher tells you not to do. You know Mary Noel is not a good girl.”

“She’s as good as anybody. You don’t like her, nor care to play with her at all, or you would not be so obedient all at once.”

Just then the door opened, and Mary appeared.

“Don’t you want to go and slide? It is fine on the ice, Lillie,” she exclaimed.

“Miss Lane and papa don’t like Lillie to go on the ice alone,” answered Jennie, quickly.

“That was when the ice was thinner,” interposed Lillie, angry at her interference.

“What a baby you are, to care for everything Miss Lane says. I don’t see what right she has to rule you.”

“She don’t rule us,” cried Jennie, indignantly; but Lillie, whose wrong-doing had not been without its effect upon her sense of justice and natural nobleness, began to consider herself an ill-used person, and flushed crimson at the thought of being “ruled.”

“She does,” continued Mary; “why, the other afternoon, Lillie was afraid——”

A quick, imploring gesture from Lillie stopped her words, and Jennie, facing round, eyed both girls suspiciously.

“What was she afraid of? What have you been doing?”

“Oh, nothing. Come, Lillie, are you going?”

“No, she isn’t,” uttered Jennie, imperatively.

“You can’t hinder me.”

“I’ll tell papa.”

“Well, tell him.”

“I’ll go now, and Mrs. Hill will lock you up, if I speak to her.”

“Oh, dear, there’s another mistress, is there? Why, it’s a wonder you get liberty to eat or sleep,” exclaimed Mary, mockingly.

“I did not care about going on the ice,” said Lillie, standing up and looking wrathfully at Jennie, “but since you have made yourself so disagreeable about it, I will go. So there’s nobody to blame but yourself. Papa has told you never to speak to me in that manner, many a time.”

The two strode down stairs and out of the house with much dignity, leaving Jennie in great anger. But presently, the excitable girl’s nerves grew more quiet, a feeling of sorrow took the place of her wrath, and her tender conscience began to accuse her of hastiness and sinfulness in provoking her sister. It was not long before every other thought was forgotten in an intense feeling of self-reproach, and, like all impulsive persons, she went quickly from one extreme to another, and acquitted Lillie of all blame, laying it upon herself.

“Oh! if I had only not been so quick. Oh! if I had governed my tongue—and I have been warned so many times—Lillie would not have gone, I’m sure; she nearly always does what she is told. May-be she will be drowned. I will run and coax her to come back. I could never hold up my head again.”

She ran out along the bank of the lake, and called the two girls loudly. They were sliding near the shore, and Jennie’s anger and impatience returned at the sight of them in safety, disobeying the commands of those to whom they owed obedience; so that another scene of quarrelling took place, and Jennie went back sobbing with vexation, and Lillie continued to slide, more obstinate and hardened than before.

“Let us go out further,” proposed Mary, “the ice is smoother nearer the other side.”

“Are you sure it is sound?”

“Yes, Tom drew a load of wood over it yesterday.”

So on they slid till they reached a broad, square place, where Mr. Graham’s men had been cutting ice, with a thin coating as smooth as glass upon it.

“I’m not afraid to cross that. Are you, Lillie?”

Foolish child that she was, Lillie could not bear to acknowledge that she was afraid.

“You are afraid!” exclaimed Mary, with a loud laugh, seeing her hesitate. “I dare you to cross it. It is not thin.”

“You’re afraid yourself.”

“I knew you were. See, you’re only trying to get out of it.”

With a crimson face and her heart beating loudly, the little girl advanced upon the treacherous ice. She had just gone beyond the edge of the thick part, when a crack and a shriek rang upon the air, and she felt herself going down. It was all the work of an instant, like a flash, though neither remembered exactly how it happened. Mary caught the clothes of the sinking child, and drew her out, dripping, shivering, and pale with fright, upon the thick ice. There they looked at each other an instant, and then began to sob with nervous excitement.

Lillie was so touched and awed by the emotion of her usually insensible companion, that she had not the heart to cry out against her for tempting her to her death, as had been her first impulse. So, in that deplorable plight, with the dripping water freezing about her, she hastened home.

She was too much subdued to heed Jennie’s “I told you so,” and “You might have known,” but submitted to Mrs. Hill’s rather rough usage in meekness, obeying her sentence of going to bed and taking a hot drink, in silence.

And there she lay in solitude, weeping over her sin, resolving to do better in the future, starting up with a great thrill of terror when the thought that she might even then have been in God’s presence with the unrepented sin on her soul, came into her mind.

“I will tell Miss Lane just as soon as she comes home,” she said to herself again and again, and as the night came on, she sat listening eagerly for the light steps of the teacher. Jennie came creeping in with a penitent face, after a while, to show her completed drawing, and to tell her, shyly but earnestly, how sorry she was for her share in the afternoon’s disaster.

“Papa will punish me, I suppose,” remarked Lillie, at last, when there was a pause. “But I think I am cured of going with Mary Noel any more. I wonder if he will be very angry!” And the old dread of reproaches came upon her with such force, that she was about to utter an entreaty to Jennie for silence concerning the events of the afternoon, when her better soul came to her again, and she resolved to bear whatever might be given her in patience.

Presently, as she lay there alone, listening for sounds in the large, still house, she heard the joyful outcry that welcomed her papa, and a few seconds after, the light, tripping step of Miss Lane sounded near the door. Pretty soon, she was heard descending, and then the buzzing of voices, as the parlor door was opened, came confusedly to her ear.

A moment more and the sound was shut out from her, and Sallie came up with a tray, and her nice tea arranged upon it—she saw at a glance—by Miss Lane’s own hands.

But Lillie was almost too sad and depressed to eat. Her heart was very full of tears by this time, as she thought that her own fault had shut her out from the light and warmth and pleasure down stairs. She heard the piano soon, and voices of happy laughter reached her faintly, borne through the long empty halls and quiet rooms up stairs. But these sounds of mirth, instead of enlivening her, only made her sadder.

The great tears ran down her cheeks as she thought how little she was missed, and wondered if her papa would come to say “good night” to her. The moonlight began to shine in at her window. She got up and looked out at her mamma’s grave, and wept again in her loneliness and gloom. The door opened softly, and turning round quickly, she saw her papa standing grave and sorrowful before her.

“I’m sorry to hear what my little Lillie has been doing,” he said, sadly.

The child covered her face with both hands.

“Indeed, indeed, papa, I am so sorry,” she sobbed.

“But that will not undo it, my child, it cannot give me back my trust in your honor and truth.”

It was very bitter. What would she have given to blot out all those last days? Her guilty pleasure seemed so very worthless now, and she had given in exchange her papa’s esteem, Miss Lane’s confidence, her peace of mind. She sat with her head bent down in humiliation, while her papa stood over her with the face which he had worn when her mamma died. Lillie could not bear it.

“Oh! papa, please forgive me, please trust me again; I cannot bear it.”

And Lillie felt his arms around her, and his kiss on her cheek, while she sobbed as if her heart would break.

“I will take any punishment, papa, so you’ll let me be your little Lillie again. It has been so miserable.”

“My dear, I forgive you—you must not forget that there is some one else whose pardon you must ask. You have displeased God no less than me—and you are His baptized child, you know.”

Lillie hung her head, and her papa, kissing her again, left her to seek that pardon, which she did seek humbly and with tears. Before she slept she opened her heart to her teacher also, and received an assurance of forgiveness.

“Never try to conceal anything, Lillie,” said Miss Lane; “your punishment is sure to come sooner or later. Your sin will find you out in some way. God allows not the slightest wrong-doing to pass unpunished—and a hidden fault is like poison in the soul, blackening and corrupting it. Little children can hide but little from those who are older. I guessed much from your manner, and Sallie told me you and Mary had been in my room, when I asked her if she knew anything of the accident.”

“Then what could you have thought of me, Miss Lane!”

“I was very much disappointed in you, my dear, I will tell you frankly. I thought you incapable of concealment or deceit.”

“Oh, Miss Lane, I have been so unhappy. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid, and I really thought it very mean to go into your room without permission.”

“But you listened to the tempter twice, my dear, and you see what the consequences have been. If you had resisted the first time, it would not have been so easy to fall the second. Every time we yield, we lose one portion of strength, and by familiarity with sin, our horror of it passes quickly away. There might come a time, my dear, when a deceitful, disobedient action would not trouble your conscience at all.”

“Oh, Miss Lane! But, indeed, there are so many things to make me naughty, and Jennie was so cross and overbearing that I would go.”

“Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love Him,” was the answer, as Miss Lane, kissing the little penitent, went out and left her with God.

CHAPTER VI.

“The snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night,

Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.”

It was Saturday, the children’s holiday. Miss Lane was walking through the glen towards the village, and looked at everything with pleasure. The ground was covered with a light snow, and the trees wore a sparkling coat of mail. It seemed as if a new earth had been created during the night, so strange and beautiful was the aspect of the forest.

The air was soft and fresh, and quite still; the snow was like an exquisitely pure carpet under her feet, and here and there, a branch, laden with its weight of pearls, bent over the path.

It was more like a dream than anything real, for the trees wore a foliage fairy-like in its delicacy, and a gray sky hung over the whole. Sounds came muffled to her ears, and the brook was ice-bound. Everything was so strangely, wonderfully beautiful, that her heart was thrilled, and she was half afraid to think how very glad she was—how very fair the world seemed. So, moving on quickly in the lightness of her heart, pushing the snow with her feet, she came out of the long avenue of crystal, and knocked at the cottage door.

“She was took bad in the night, ma’am,” was the step-mother’s reply to her inquiries, and the awful nearness of death fell upon the marvellous loveliness of the day, changing the bounding gladness of the lady’s heart into a calm, quiet sadness, and leaving an impress of wonder and fright on the hard face of the woman, as they stood in the presence of that soul so near the borders of the silent land.

“She’s been lying just so for two hours, Miss. I can’t get her to open her eyes or to speak. The doctor’s been here, and he says ’taint no use; so he went away again.”

The perfectly white face of the child was upturned towards them, her eyes were closed, and deep black circles enclosed them, sunken in their sockets. The battle of life was almost over. The little gleam of brighter days was about to broaden into the full sunlight of the celestial abode, and a land of love was opening for the lonely heart.

“Phœbe, it is I, your friend, Miss Lane. Can you not speak to me?”

The heavy lids were lifted, and a ray from the dimming eyes rested upon the lady’s face, as she leaned over the miserable bed, the tears dropping silently.

“The doctor said he thought nothin’ wouldn’t rouse her, ma’am. She is nearly gone, for sure;” and the step-mother lifted her apron to her eyes.

The father, haggard from drink, yet with a certain expression of awe on his face, too, came in and stood on the other side of the bed.

With great gentleness, Miss Lane administered a cordial, and soon the deathlike look left Phœbe’s face a little. The fingers lying languidly in her friend’s palm closed in a slight pressure, and her lips moved in a whisper. The teacher put down her ear and caught the words, “The Holy Communion—send for Mr. Payne.”

In a moment the step-mother was hastening for the man of God.

“Father,” said Phœbe again, speaking with much difficulty; and the wretched man came nearer, so that his child’s eyes rested upon his face. “I am going to leave you—oh, be ready to meet me; promise:” and the solemn tones of her voice broke up the ice of wickedness and hardness about the man’s heart, till he wept.

There was a great stillness in the room again, and it was only broken by a low moan of pain from the dying child.

“Do you suffer, Phœbe?” asked Miss Lane.

“Oh yes, and it is dark—lonely.”

“Jesus is there, my dear; trust in Him.”

“I cannot see—oh, save me.”

“Our Saviour is waiting, Phœbe. He is near. Do not fear. Lift up your heart unto the Lord.”

A light broke over her face, and the moaning ceased. She moved her hand to her breast; and, lifting the sheet, Miss Lane saw lying there, the little Prayer-book she had given her, with its faded heliotrope between the leaves. The tears fell faster, and she kissed the poor, wasted cheek of the girl.

“That makes me happy—” she murmured, with such a look of delight that a great pang passed through the teacher’s heart, as she thought of how little love had brightened the poor girl’s life, when one kiss was felt amidst her suffering to be such a joy.

“I’ll remember it in Paradise—you have taught me the way there,” she continued.

And now Mr. Payne came, and the solemn sacrament began. Kneeling round the bed of that departing soul, the broken body and shed blood of the Lord were received by chastened spirits—while “the peace which passeth understanding” rested in the hearts of all.

It was over, and Phœbe lay on her pillow exhausted, but with a calm mind, and an expression of perfect joy on her face. And now the end was very near. For one, two hours, the soul wrestled with the body, and the pain was hard to bear: but then a calmer time came, when she was free from pain, and before sun-setting she fell asleep, or rather woke into light and life.

Her friend smoothed back the soft hair, closed the eyes, took the little Prayer-book from the dead hands, gave it to the humbled father with a silent prayer, and reverently kissing the marble brow, went softly home through the quiet woods, feeling as if she had been close to heaven.

At the sun-setting, its brilliant rays illuminated all the trees and shrubs till the forests were resplendent. The sky was blue, and a few clouds floated near the horizon, tinted with a border of gold. In the distance, the heaven and the woods seemed to meet; the clouds, the millions of branches sparkling with diamonds, appeared—one might conceive—like the gates at the entrance of Paradise, and shining upon them was the splendor of the sun behind.

A soul had entered into rest, and God’s world, held in his hand, was made all beautiful by the reflection of his glory. Suddenly, darkness came, and the wonderful beauty faded away.

CHAPTER VII.

It was a dull gray morning, and it had been raining all night. Jennie was very unwilling to get up—it was a daily trial to her—but this morning it seemed absolutely impossible, she could not keep her eyes open; and yet, half dozing as she was, she was uncomfortably conscious that she was doing wrong.

Seven sounded from the clock—half past—and then she heard Miss Lane and the children descending. She lay still, idly watching the drops as they fell against the panes, trying to make up her mind that she did not care for the disapproval of her own conscience nor for the reproof which she was quite sure awaited her from Miss Lane. In fact, she was indifferent to everything but the dreamy, lazy delight of lying there and hearing the dripping of the rain drops. Presently, her charming reverie was rudely disturbed by Lillie, who rushed into the room with the command from Miss Lane that she should come down immediately.

A disrespectful answer rose to Jennie’s lips as the blood rushed over her face. A month ago she would have uttered it, disregarding the consequences; but she had learned a little, a very little, of the meaning of self-control, from her teacher’s words and example; so she kept her lips closed.

“You’d better come,” continued Lillie, “Miss Lane’s going to show us about the Christmas things as soon as breakfast is over.”

“I don’t care,” murmured Jennie, shutting her eyes slowly.

“Very well then;” and Lillie went down stairs, in a state of great indignation, to report to Miss Lane.

“Jennie says she don’t care, and is going to sleep again,” she exclaimed, not without a little triumph at her own superior goodness in her tone, and waiting to hear her teacher’s comment upon such unprecedented conduct. But Lillie was disappointed; neither frown nor flush changed the fairness of her face.

“Very well,” she said, in a quiet voice, looking at the child steadily, showing that she read her thought, and calling a blush of consciousness and shame to her cheek.

About an hour afterwards, Jennie, coming down, found some bread and butter and a glass of milk on the dining-room table for her. She rang the bell impatiently, and Sallie presently appeared.

“Sallie, I want some muffins. Did you save any for me?”

Sallie closed the door carefully, and coming near her, said in a half whisper,

“Miss Lane said you were to have only this; but I saved you some hot muffins and a piece of steak. I’ll bring ’em in.”

And she did so accordingly.

“I suppose,” exclaimed Jennie, her face in a blaze, “I’ll eat what I please in my own father’s house. If she thinks she’s mistress here, she’ll see she’s mistaken. Dear me!”