Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
THE
SCHOOL-GIRLS'
TREASURY
OR,
STORIES FOR THOUGHTFUL GIRLS.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SOCIETY FOR THE PROMOTION
OF EVANGELICAL KNOWLEDGE,
NO. 2, BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK.
1870.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870,
BY "THE PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SOCIETY FOR THE
PROMOTION OF EVANGELICAL KNOWLEDGE,"
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
United States for the Southern District of New York.
ST. JOHNLAND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, SUFFOLK CO., N. Y.
THIS VOLUME
IS PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL CONTRIBUTION
OF THE
SUNDAY-SCHOOL OF THE CHURCH OF
THE INCARNATION,
NEW YORK.
CONTENTS.
[ANNA, OR, "MAKE THE BEST OF IT"]
[DORA, OR, "WON'T YOU EVER TELL?"]
[ESTHER'S BAD DAY, OR, "I COULDN'T HELP IT"]
[MARTHA, OR, "CHARITY THINKETH NO EVIL"]
[MARY, OR, "SHE MADE ME DO IT"]
[LOUISA, OR, "JUST ONE MINUTE"]
THE
SCHOOL-GIRLS'
TREASURY
ANNA, OR, "MAKE THE BEST OF IT." Frontispiece.
OR,
MAKE THE BEST OF IT.
YOU would not oftener see a pleasanter parlor than the one where Anna was sitting. It was handsomely and tastefully furnished, with abundance of pictures and prints on the walls. There were pretty chintz curtains to the one large window, and the couches and chairs were covered with the same material. There was a bright blazing fire burning in the grate, and a pretty kitten sat purring on the rug before it. The gas was lighted, and a table at Anna's elbow was strewn with books and magazines.
Yet Anna sat in her comfortable chair before the fire, looking very doleful indeed, and she had been sitting so for a whole hour. She had a book in her hand, but she was not reading: her eyes were apparently fixed on the kitten before the fire, and it was easy to see that a very little would make them overflow with tears. In fact, Anna felt very unhappy, and—in spite of her long frocks which she had worn for a full half year—very babyish indeed.
Anna had been left at home to keep house for a week, while her father and mother and the two younger children went to visit her grandfather. Anna had expected a very dear friend to stay with her while her father and mother were gone. Lillie Adams was to have come by the evening train, and Anna had caused a dainty hot supper to be prepared for her; but instead of her friend, the postman brought a hurried letter from Lillie Adams, saying that her father had been suddenly called abroad on business and wished her to go with him: so she was going to Germany upon three days' notice, instead of coming to visit Anna.
This was a grievous disappointment, no doubt, and it was no wonder that Anna felt it; but she was not going to work to meet it in the right way.
She was making the worst instead of the best of the case. She would not eat a mouthful of the supper which had been prepared for her friend; she betook herself to none of her usual evening employments, but sat moodily before the fire, picturing to herself the merry group which would be assembled at her grandfather's fireside, and the delightful bustle in which Lillie Adams was engaged preparing to go abroad. And contrasting these things with her own lonely condition and the long tiresome week of solitude which was before her. There was great danger of the eyes overflowing, after all: when the opening of the door and the entrance of the cook made a moment's diversion.
Caroline Davis was a colored woman who had lived with Mrs. Grey ever since her marriage, and was regarded as a friend and counsellor by all the family, from the oldest to the youngest, especially by the children. She was apt to "speak her mind," as she said, on all occasions, especially when she thought she saw any of the children going wrong, and she had come to speak her mind now to her favorite, Miss Anna.
"Miss Anna!" said she, planting herself in front of her. "Ain't you going to eat any supper?"
"I don't want anything, thank you, Caroline," said Anna, in a doleful tone.
"You'd better have something," persisted Caroline. "I've got some splendid batter cakes, just baked, and a chocolate cake such as you like; and I'll make you a famous cup of coffee."
"I don't think I want any, thank you, Caroline," repeated Anna, still more dolefully, though she was conscious of certain stirrings within at the mention of the chocolate cake and other dainties.
Caroline took a step forward, and placed her arms a-kimbo, as she was apt to do when disposed for an argument. "Look here, honey," said she. "Do you calculate to go on this way all the time your pa and ma are away? Because, if you do, I think I'd better write to them to come home again."
Anna smiled, in spite of herself. "I hav'n't made any calculations about the matter, Caroline. My calculations have not turned out so well that I should want to make any more," she added, rather bitterly.
"Just so, honey. You've been disappointed, I don't deny it; and no wonder you feel bad. But the question is, are you going to feel as bad as you can, or are you going to make the best of it? You know what the Bible says about taking up the cross, Miss Anna, my dear. Now this disappointment is a cross that He has sent you, and the question is whether you are going to take it up and bear it like a Christian or sit down on the ground and fret under it, like a baby?"
Anna seemed a good deal interested by this view of the case. "But it hardly seems right to call such a thing as this a cross," said she.
Caroline smiled. "Well, I don't call it the biggest kind of a cross," said she, "that is compared to what some folks have to carry—old Mrs. Williams, for instance, with her bad leg and her rheumatic shoulders and her poor consumptive daughter. Still it is a cross for you to be disappointed of your friend's visit, and to have to stay alone all the week; but I would not make it any worse than it is, if I were you. Now I shall go and get your supper and bring it to you in here, and I guess you'll find you want some, after all."
Anna sat thinking, after Caroline left the room, but it was with quite a different expression of face.
"How silly I am!" she was saying to herself. "Only yesterday I was reading the lives of Margaret Rogers and Lady Jane Gray, and wishing I had lived in times when there were some great things to do; and hear I am actually crying like a baby over the very first thing that comes to try my strength, and sitting down as though them were no more to be done in the world, because Lillie Adams is going to Europe. I won't be such a fool, and that is all about it. Come, Pussy, get up and make yourself agreeable!"
Pussy was very ready to exert herself for Anna's benefit and her own, and the two were in the midst of a famous romp, when Caroline entered with her dainty tray of provisions.
"There, now! I call that something like!" said she, much pleased with the change. "Come and eat your supper, honey, while it is hot."
Anna disposed of her batter-puffs and other good things in a way which showed that her trouble had not entirely destroyed her appetite, and she could not deny that she enjoyed her supper.
"Caroline," said she, "you know that breakfast shawl Aunt Anna left here? It is rather faded, but not at all worn out. I have been thinking that I might ravel it out and make it over with some stripes of a new bright color. That would make it quite pretty again, and it would be nice and warm for Mrs. Williams' lame shoulders."
"That is an excellent notion of yours, my dear. The old lady needs a shawl, I know, and she likes bright colors, too: and she will think all the more of the shawl if it is your own work."
Anna was one of those people who, when they think of a project for the benefit of another, like to set about it directly; so she went up-stairs and brought down the old shawl and a large basket of bright-colored worsteds, of many different shades.
The rest of the evening quickly passed away in ravelling out the shawl and contriving the best way of making it over so as to be better than before. And Anna was surprised when Caroline came in and said it was nine o'clock.
"Are you going to have prayers to-night, Miss Anna?"
Anna hesitated. She felt very shy about reading and praying before the servants.
"I would, if I were you," said Caroline. "You see you are the head of the house, now that your father and mother are away."
"And I am sure we need to ask God's protection all the more when we are separated one from the other," thought Anna. "No, I will not give way to false shame. I may as well begin now as any time. Yes, Caroline, we will have prayers, if you will tell Jane and Albert to come in."
Anna's heart beat fast when she began to read, but she tried to fix her mind upon the sacred words, and by the time she came to the prayers, she was ready to pray with all her heart.
"Well, I didn't believe Miss Anna would read prayers!" she heard Jane say, after the servants had left the room. "She is such a shy young lady, generally. You know for all she plays so well, how she hates to play before company."
"She is her father's own daughter," replied Caroline. "When she knows she ought to do a thing she does it; I tell you she isn't ashamed to confess her Lord before men, and He won't be ashamed to confess her in the great day!"
"Was that confessing Christ, I wonder?" thought Anna. "I suppose it was, in one way, though I did not think of it at the time. I am glad I did read, at any rate."
Some of Anna's unpleasant feelings returned when she found herself in her own room up-stairs. It seemed so very lonely without papa and mamma in the next room and the boys overhead, and she began to wonder whether she was going to be afraid.
"But, after all, what is there to be afraid of?" she said to herself. "The bell-rope hangs close to my head and I have only to pull it to call Caroline and Albert in a minute. Besides it is God who takes care of me when my father and mother are here, and He can do it just as well when they are away!"
So Anna read her chapters and said her prayers, and learned her two verses to repeat in the morning, as was the custom of the family; and then went bravely to bed without even looking under the bed, as she did sometimes when her parents were at home. She had thought she should lie awake and listen for suspicious noises; but, as it happened, the first noise she heard was the ringing of the first bell in the morning.
"Now, what had I better do to-day?" she said to herself, as she was dressing. "I have no particular work, and there is nothing to be done about the house. O dear, I wish it was not vacation and all the girls I care about were not away. But then if it is vacation, that is no reason why I should be idle; I mean to practise two hours instead of one, and try to get those waltzes perfectly that papa likes so much."
"And what else shall I do? I believe I will try painting a picture all by myself, and see what I can make of it. Miss Jeffrey says I ought to be able to work by myself now, and I am sure she will be pleased if I have something pretty to show her when school begins again. I will copy that chromo which Aunt Anna gave mamma; and if it turns out nicely, it will be a pretty present for one of the old ladies at the Home."
Anna read prayers after breakfast, and then, after dusting the drawing-room, she sat down for two hours of vigorous practise. Then she began her picture, and by dinnertime she had her paper prepared, her outline drawn, and her first tints washed in.
"There! I have made a good beginning!" said she, looking at her work with great satisfaction. "And if nothing happens, I shall have finished it before mamma comes home, and before school begins again. I mean to work at music and painting in the morning and take a good long walk every afternoon. Then I will work at Mrs. Williams' shawl in the evening, and that will use up my time nicely."
Something was destined to happen, however, which sadly interfered with all these calculations. When Anna returned from her walk that afternoon, she saw that the blinds of the front bed-room were opened.
"I wonder if Lillie can have come, after all!" she said to herself, as she quickened her steps.
She was met at the door by Caroline with a face which promised no good news.
"Has any one come?" she asked.
"Well, yes, honey, somebody has come, though I'm afraid it isn't any one you want to see very bad."
"Not Aunt Dorinda!" exclaimed Anna, rather more loudly than was prudent, considering the tone in which she spoke.
"Hush, my dear! She will hear you! Yes, it is Aunt Dorinda, sure enough! Never mind, honey, we can't help it now. We must only make the best of it, that's all."
"Aunt Dorinda, of all people!" thought Anna, as she went to her room to take off her hat. "Well, there is an end to all my fine plans. However, as Caroline says, there is no help for it now. Poor thing, I suppose I may as well have her for a little while as anybody else. I must just leave off studying painting and study patience, that is all."
Poor Aunt Dorinda! She was a woman of a good deal of talent. She was tolerably rich, and decidedly well educated; and she fully intended to be a Christian, and to do a great deal of good in the world; and yet there was not one of all the families she visited who did not dread to see her come into the house, or who did not feel relieved when she went away.
All this inconsistency is easily explained. Aunt Dorinda never did or could mind her own business, and let the affairs of other people alone. She was possessed with a great desire to do good, and she was always making presents; but she wished always to do good exactly in her own way; and her presents were generally accompanied with remarks and admonitions which rendered them bitter pills to those who were obliged to accept them.
"So it seems I have come just in the nick of time!" said she to her niece, after the first greeting. "I do wonder your mother should have you to keep house alone. I don't suppose you know anything about it."
"I don't have very much housekeeping to do, Aunt Dorinda," replied Anna. "Caroline is the housekeeper when mamma is away. And I did not expect to be alone either, for Lillie Adams was coming to stay with me, only she was obliged to go away unexpectedly."
"Worse and worse! Two giddy heads are worse than one. I am surprised that your mother should think of leaving you alone with such a vain worldly girl as Lillie Adams."
"Lillie is neither vain nor worldly, Aunt Dorinda!" said Anna, with spirit. "She was confirmed last Easter, and the is a good Christian girl, if ever there was one."
"Don't tell me that, Anna Grey!" returned Aunt Dorinda, angrily. "Haven't I seen her with my own eyes with three ruffles on the lower skirt of her dress and as many on the upper? Do you call that being a Christian?"
"Lillie does not follow her own taste in dress," said Anna, smiling in spite of herself. "Her stepmother dresses her. Lillie said to me that she preferred to dress more plainly; but Mrs. Adams had always been so kind and good to her, that she did not like to contradict her on a matter of no great importance. You know, Aunt Dorinda, how devotedly Mrs. Adams nursed Lillie through her long illness, after she had that dreadful accident. Papa himself said that Lillie owed her life and health more to her stepmother's nursing than to his skill. Mrs. Adams gave up everything to her."
"O yes, I know!" said Aunt Dorinda, scornfully. "I heard all that when I talked to Lillie as I did about her dress."
"'What of that?' said I. 'You ought to follow your own convictions of duty, whatever your stepmother may say.'"
"And all Lillie did was to toss head and say that 'her convictions of duty led her to honor her father and mother.'"
"What time do you have tea?"
"At seven-o'clock, aunt, because it is more convenient to papa: but I will order it earlier, if you are hungry, after your ride."
"Well, I am surprised!" This was Aunt Dorinda's favorite phrase. "I should think your father, being a physician, would know better than to eat so late in the evening. Half-past five is the very latest hour that any one ought to eat."
Anna could not help thinking that her father, being a physician, would be likely to know what was good for himself and his family; but she said nothing, and ordered tea at half-past five, thinking that at least she would have a good long evening to work.
Aunt Dorinda, came down at tea-time, bringing a very large work-basket with her. She shook her head at the biscuits, declaring them very unwholesome, but managed to eat a fair share of them nevertheless, with a due proportion of stewed oysters and other good things.
Anna tried to keep her entertained by asking questions about different relatives and family friends; but she found there was not one of them all who had not displeased Aunt Dorinda in some way or other, generally by having opinions of their own about the management of their private affairs. Aunt Dorinda was one of those people who think that they are always right, and therefore always entitled to find fault with others. She had, as it were, cut out a pattern of Christian character according to her own notions of perfection, and she went about the world trying this pattern upon all her acquaintances, and endeavoring to pare and prune them or else to stretch them to fit it. She frowned and shook her head when Anna brought out her crochet work, after tea.
"Always at that useless fancy work!" said she. "Why do you not do something useful? How much better to be working for some poor person or for the missionaries, than to be spending your time in such idle pursuits!"
"But this is for a poor person, aunt," said Anna, determined not to be vexed. "It is for old Mrs. Williams, at the Home."
"How absurd, Anna! Making such a fanciful thing for a poor woman who is dependent for her daily bread! You might buy a woollen shawl for half the money, which would do her just as much good and save your time and your funds."
"I don't think so, aunt! You see this shawl did not cost me any money, except twenty-five cents for some scarlet-shaded wool. Aunt Anna left it here when she went away and told me to give it to some poor person. And almost all the new wool I am using is made up of odds and ends left from different pieces of work."
"Then why not give her the shawl just as your aunt left it?"
"Because it would not be as acceptable, aunt. Mrs. Williams loves pretty things and colors, and she will like the shawl all the better if it is my own work."
"Humph! I suppose you flatter yourself that you are doing all that work for Mrs. Williams and not for your own amusement?"
"Yes, aunt, I think so," said Anna, simply.
"Well, here is the proof. I have in this basket some shirts to be made up for a missionary at the west. Let me see you put away that senseless worsted, and stitch one of these bosoms."
"I cannot do it this evening, aunt, because papa does not like to have me do fine work in the evening," said Anna, speaking pleasantly, though she felt annoyed. "But I will stitch it to-morrow, with pleasure."
"We shall see when to-morrow comes!" said Aunt Dorinda, rather ungraciously. "I hope no new excuse will turn up in the meantime. There now, child, you need not color so and look so vexed. I mean all for your good, and you know I always say just what I think to everybody."
"But you don't like it one bit, when people say what they think to you!" thought Anna, but she did not say so.
She began asking about the missionary to whom the shirts were to be sent, and about other missionaries; and the rest of the evening passed over very comfortably.
"We have prayers at nine o'clock, Aunt Dorinda," said Anna, when the clock struck the hour.
"Indeed!" said Aunt Dorinda. "Who conducts them, now that your father is away?"
"I did last night and this morning," replied Anna. "I thought perhaps you would do so to-night."
"You had better do just as you would if I were not here," said Aunt Dorinda. "I will see how you manage, and tell you if there is room for improvement."
Anna did not feel any more devotional for the thought that Aunt Dorinda was criticising her; but she tried to collect herself and to think of nothing but the solemn duty in which she was engaged; and she succeeded better than she expected.
"Why don't you pray in your own words?" was Aunt Dorinda's first question.
"Because, aunt, I think that the words in the book are better than any I could use. And besides," added Anna, rather, timidly; "if I were to try to pray in my own words before others, I am afraid I should be thinking more of the words and of how to express myself than of the sense."
"Do you think then that all those who pray in their own words before others are thinking more of the words than of the sense?" asked Aunt Dorinda, sharply.
"No, aunt, not at all. I was only speaking of myself. And I don't see either why I should use my own words when I have such good and suitable words all ready for me."
"I am afraid you have no proper spirit of devotion," said Aunt Dorinda, severely. "I am afraid you have never learned to pray in the true spirit of prayer."
Anna was too much hurt to reply, and perhaps it was as well she did not do so. She went to her room feeling tired, discouraged and unhappy. Was it really tree that she had never learned to pray, and had none of the true spirit of devotion? Had all her enjoyments in the Church services and in her private devotions been a delusion? Had she done wrong, after all, in performing the duty which it had been so hard for her to undertake? And if she had been wrong so far, how was she to set herself right?
"Oh, how I do wish mamma was at home!" said she, sighing. "She would tell me what I ought to do. And how am I to get on with Aunt Dorinda, all alone, for a week?"
Anna took up her little book of texts for every day in the year. It had been given her by her Sunday-school teacher with the advice that she should learn the text for every day, and keep it in mind as a topic for meditation. She opened to the day of the month, and her eyes fell on the words:
"All things work together for good to them that love God."
"'All things,'" she thought. "And 'to them that love God.' Do I love Him? Yes, I am sure I do. Aunt Dorinda says it is very hard to tell whether we love God or not; but I don't see why it should be so. I don't find it hard to tell whether I love my other friends or not. Yes, I am sure I love Him, and if so, this promise is for me."
"Then there must be some way in which Aunt Dorinda's visit may do me good. I do not see how, unless in teaching me to be patient at being contradicted and put out of my way. Mamma says of me sometimes that I am very pleasant when I am pleased. Well, I must learn to be pleasant when I am not pleased. I know that Aunt Dorinda, does really mean to be good and kind, and I must try to remember that and have patience with the rest. I suppose I shall have to give up my painting and work at those shirt-bosoms, but that is no great sacrifice, after all, and the shirts will do somebody good. It isn't the heaviest kind of a cross, as Caroline says, after all."
By the time Anna had finished her prayers and reading, she felt once more contented and happy. She went to sleep with the words of praise upon her lips and in her heart, and awoke feeling cheerful and brave, and ready to "make the best of anything that should happen."
That day Anna not only stitched the shirt-bosom, putting aside her painting for the purpose, but she nearly finished the garment. She did not, however, think it necessary to give up Mrs. Williams' shawl, though her aunt went out in the afternoon and bought some marvellously coarse yarn expressly that Anna might, as she said, have no excuse for that senseless fancywork: thinking that her poor old friend had quite as much claims upon her as a person she had never seen, and whom even her aunt did not know.
Aunt Dorinda stayed three days, and then received a letter which decided her to go back directly. Anna helped her to pack with a right good will, and she drew a long breath of relief as Aunt Dorinda drove away.
"Well, she's gone!" said Caroline. "She means to be a good woman, I don't doubt, but she is a trial. There's one thing I must say, Miss Anna, my dear, that you might learn from your aunt, and that is to mind your own business, and not interfere with other folks, even when you think you know more than they do. It is just that which makes her so disagreeable, and makes her do harm where she wants and means to do good. And you know, honey, you do interfere sometimes, even with your mother."
Anna blushed. "I know it. I was thinking of that very thing last night."
"Well, then, that is one way to make the best of Aunt Dorinda. Try to be like her in wishing to do good and to help others; and learn from her, not to spoil all the good you do by dictating and interfering so as to make people dislike you. I tell you, honey, these disagreeable Christians have a great deal to answer for."
The remaining days of the week passed pleasantly and quickly to Anna; but she was a good deal disappointed when, on Saturday, she received a letter from her father, saying that they should not be at home for three days longer.
"Three more days!" she thought. "But then I shall have time to finish my picture and my shawl; and I am sure mamma will be pleased with them."
Thus you have seen how by a brave and cheerful spirit Anna was enabled to enjoy the time which at first seemed likely to pass so heavily; and how by a spirit of Christian gentleness and humility she contrived to extract real good out of what might have made her only fretful and unhappy.
Try, my dear girls, to do likewise. Try to make the best of whatever happens, and when, as it seems, there is no best to be made, try to receive your trouble as a cross from the hand of your kind and loving Heavenly Father, and pray for His grace to sanctify your affliction, and be assured He will teach you to "make the best of it."
DORA, OR, "WON'T YOU EVER TELL?" Frontispiece.
OR,
"WON'T YOU EVER TELL?"
"WON'T you ever tell as long as you live and breathe?" said Dora Hayes to Eva Morrison.
"No," replied Eva, thoughtlessly.
"Just as true as you live?" repeated Dora.
"I don't know," said Eva, taking a second thought. "I always do tell mother everything."
"Then I shall not tell you!" returned Dora, tossing her head. "If you are such a baby as that, I shall never tell you anything. I should think you would be ashamed to run and tell m—a—a everything you hear."
And Dora tossed her head and laughed in a very ill-bred, disagreeable manner.
"Well, I am not ashamed, and I don't want any of your secrets, Dora Hayes," said Eva, coloring, but speaking very decidedly. "My mother is the best friend I have in the world, and I love her dearly, and I don't know who I should tell things to, if not to her. So you may keep your great secret to yourself."
"But this is something that somebody said about you," said Dora, seeing that she had made a mistake in laughing at Eva.
"So much the worse," returned Eva, boldly, though she felt her curiosity excited. "I don't want to know what people say about me, and you ought never to repeat conversation either. You know what the doctor said about that in catechism class only yesterday."
And Eva turned away, and sitting down at a distance, she occupied herself in learning her lesson till school began. A good many times in the course of the day, she found herself wondering what it was that Dora wanted to tell her; but she put the thought resolutely away. And by the next morning, she had almost forgotten the matter.
Eva's parents were among the richest people in the place. Eva herself was always prettily and fashionably dressed: she had plenty of pocket-money to spend, and she had been in vacation to Saratoga and Newport, and even to London and Paris with her parents.
According to the usual course of story-books, Eva ought, I suppose, to be represented as proud, and haughty, and vain. I am glad to say that she was nothing of the sort. She was a kindhearted, truthful, good girl, always ready to help her school-mates in their lessons and to amuse them with telling stories of what she had seen. She was, for that matter, not nearly so proud as her classmate and most particular friend Amy Preston.
Amy was the daughter of a widow lady, who kept a fancy-store in the place where Eva lived. Mrs. Preston was the widow of an artist. She might have had a home with her husband's relatives, but like a good and sensible woman as she was, she preferred supporting herself by the beautiful work she had learned to do abroad, and by selling materials for embroidery and other fancywork; and this she did with an honesty and energy which made her very much respected. Mrs. Preston had only one child, and she wished to give her such an education as would enable her to support herself if it became necessary. Her own business was prosperous enough to enable her to afford it: so she kept Amy at the best school in the place and allowed her to take music lessons of the same master who taught Eva Morrison.
Eva had "taken," as the girls say, to Amy Preston from the very first; but it was a good while before Amy responded to her advances. For Amy was proud, as perhaps was only natural, and she was afraid that people would say she flattered and courted the heiress. She persisted for a good while in being very cool to Eva, but at last Eva's loving frankness and persevering kindness won the day, and the two girls were now the best friends in the world.
Mrs. Morrison entirely approved of this friendship. She had known Mrs. Preston for years, and she did not believe that Eva was likely to learn anything bad from Amy. Besides, Amy was a good scholar and very industrious; and Mrs. Morrison thought she might have a good influence over Eva, who was inclined to be rather lazy over all her lessons but music and drawing.
We have said that Amy was proud, and that it was only natural that she should be so. There is a certain sort of pride, if pride it can be called, which is very proper. I mean the feeling which makes people prefer helping themselves, when they are able, to being helped by others; and causes them to be cautious and delicate about receiving expensive presents, and the like.
But this very proper feeling may be carried too far, and too far Amy certainly did carry it. She would walk home from school in the rain rather than ride in the carriage which Mr. Morrison sent for Eva. She would not receive the smallest present from Eva without making her one in return; and it was a long time before she would consent to borrow from Eva's large library of story-books.
In fact, Amy was jealous of her friend's wealth and so-called station. It often happens that we go on indulging very serious faults, just because we will not allow ourselves to call these faults by their right names. Thus we call anger just resentment, and pride self-respect, and blunt rudeness sincerity, and so on.
If Amy had really become aware that she was cherishing envy and jealousy, she would have been shocked, for she was trying very hard to be a Christian. But she christened her fault by the pretty name of self-respect. When the cow-bird lays her egg in the sparrow's nest, the sparrow cherishes it and brings up the intruder as her own; but the cow-bird hatches sooner, and grows faster than the young sparrows, and very soon turns them all out of the nest. So this intruder, which Amy called self-respect, was rapidly outgrowing all the gentle virtues of charity, humility and love in Amy's heart, and was getting ready, when occasion served, to turn them all out and keep the nest to itself.
The occasion was not very far off. There was one girl in the school who entirely disapproved of the warm friendship which existed between Eva and Amy, and that was Dora Hayes. Dora was a far-away cousin of Eva's and would have liked to be very intimate with her. Dora had no pride to prevent her from accepting any amount of obligations from her rich relations, and she would have boarded, and lodged, and dressed at Mr. Morrison's expense the year round without having her feelings hurt or her gratitude excited in the least degree.
Dora was always hanging about Eva, contriving to sit next to her, and fishing for invitations to visit her. But Eva, though she was, or meant to be, kind to Dora, did not like her. She thought her both mean and deceitful, as indeed she was. And while she sometimes made her presents and lent her books, she would never encourage Dora's attempts at intimacy.
This was very vexatious to Dora. She laid it all to Eva's friendship with "that Preston girl," as she called her, and this friendship she determined somehow or other to break up. She had begun upon Eva, but, as we have seen, with little success. Eva would not promise not to tell, and would not hear her wonderful secret at any price. Dora was very much vexed, but she was not one to give up easily any point she had set her heart upon. She determined to try and see what she could do with Amy.
Amy frequently staid in the store and attended to customers when her mother was obliged to be out. Dora knew this, and that very afternoon, finding Amy alone, she pretended to want to select a worsted pattern, and began upon Amy while she was looking over Mrs. Preston's large stock of patterns.
"You and Eva Morrison are great friends," said she.
"Yes," answered Amy, rather shortly, as if she would add, "what is that to you?"
"Eva is a good girl," continued Dora. "She is very generous, at least of things which don't cost her anything; but she is queer about some things. I wish she would not act as she does, but there is no use in my saying anything to her, and I shall not try again. Eva has never been kind to me," added Dora, with a sigh; "but still she is my cousin, and I love her, though I do see her faults. Poor thing, every one flatters her, so it is no great wonder if she does think she does anybody a great favor by noticing them."
"That is a pretty pattern for your cushion!" said Amy, who was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and to wish Dora would go away. "And it is easy to work. Why don't you take that?"
"There is not enough variety about it," answered Dora, delighted to perceive the effect of her words. "I want something prettier. As I was saying, it is no wonder that Eva is set up to think that she does you a great honor by noticing you, though I must say I think you do as much for her as she does for you."
"I don't know—" Amy began.
".Of course you don't know—how should you?" interrupted Dora. "Nobody likes to make mischief, and so nobody tells you what Eva says. I think myself it is a shame that you should not hear it, because people know how Eva goes on; and, of course, they think you know it too, and just keep on with her for what you get out of her."
"I don't get anything out of her!" said Amy, coloring.
"I know you don't, really, and that is just why I say it is a shame for Eva to say so!"
"To say what?" asked Amy, in a tone of irritation. "If you have anything to tell me, Dora, I wish you would speak it out, and have done with it!"
"Oh, well, if you want me to tell you, of course I can. Well, a certain person said to Eva the other day, 'I do wonder how you can make a friend of Amy Preston!' 'Oh!' said Miss Eva, contemptuously. 'Amy is a very cheap friend. She does not want as much as some people to keep her friendship!'"
"What did she mean by that?" asked Amy.
"Why, I suppose she meant that you, being poor, would be thankful for small favors. And then she laughed and said: 'We know what we are about. Amy gets what she wants, and I got what I want!' I suppose she gives you a great many presents, doesn't she?"
"No, indeed, she does not, because I will not take them!" replied Amy.
"Well, I am surprised!" said Dora. "I thought from what I have heard Eva say, that she more than half-clothed you. She gave you the dress you have on, didn't she? I understood her so."
"She never gave me a dress in the world!" exclaimed Amy, vehemently. "Nor anything else to wear. It is a likely story, indeed, that I should accept such presents from anybody."
"Well there, I didn't believe it!" said Dora. "I said all the time I didn't; but you see your dress being just like the one Eva wore last winter, people naturally believe the story. I don't see why Eva should tell every one, if she did give you an old dress. I always thought we were not to let our left hand know what our right hand did. Eva pretends to be such a Christian, too! I don't see how she can do so; though, for my part, I never can see that people who make great pretensions to religion air better than any one else."
If it had not been for that little imp of envy and jealousy which Amy had been nursing and potting under the pretty name of self-respect, she would never have given credit to a story so entirely inconsistent with what she had known of her friend's character. She would have seen through Dora at once, and treated her insinuations and stories with the contempt they deserved. But the jealous spirit was whispering in her ear that it was no more than was to be expected, or than she deserved for running after a girl so much richer than herself. She therefore answered angrily:
"If Eva Morrison says she ever gave me a dress, or anything of the kind, she tells a lie, and you may tell her I say so! I should think she would be ashamed of herself to be such a hypocrite—pretending to be so fond of me and then telling such falsehoods about me. I have a great mind to say I will never speak to her again!"
"I wouldn't, if I were you," said Dora, delighted with her success. "But, Amy, don't you ever tell Eva that I told you. It would make no end of trouble in the family, if you should, because my father and Mr. Morrison are in business together. By the way, it is not true, is it, that Mr. Morrison set your mother up in business?"
"Of course not! Mother had money enough from the sale of my father's pictures to set herself up in business, and have something to spare!"
"There, I didn't believe it when she said so. Well, Amy, I don't like any of these patterns. I think I will go down to Mrs. Mercer's and see if she has anything prettier."
Dora went away very much delighted with the success of her scheme, and leaving Amy feeling more unhappy than she had ever done in all her life before. She loved Eva dearly, and was deeply grieved that her friend should have been so treacherous toward her. But her pride was also wounded, and she listened to the counsels of pride rather than to those of affection. The latter advised her to go at once to Eva, tell her what she had heard, and ask an explanation; but pride told her that such a course would be mean and degrading, and would show her to be wanting in self-respect. It would have been well for Amy if, like Eva, she had been in the habit of telling everything to her mother; but she was very reserved by nature, and rarely spoke to any one of her own feelings.
She brooded over what she had heard all that day and the next, and by the time she was ready to go to school on Monday morning, she had fully made up her mind never to have any more to do with Eva Morrison.
Consequently, when Eva came to meet her with outstretched hands, as usual, Amy met her with averted eyes, and the coolest of nods, and going directly to her place, she began to study with all her might.
"What in the world ails Amy?" asked one of the girls, who had seen the meeting.
"Oh, nothing I guess!" replied Eva, though she wondered at her friend's manner. "People don't always feel alike, you know!"
"There is more about it than that," said Dora, who had been watching the meeting. "Only you never will listen to anything, I could tell you all about the matter."
"Well, what can you tell!" asked Eva, carelessly.
"I shall not say anything unless you promise not to tell, you know."
"I shall not promise, Dora, though it is not likely that I shall tell. I am not apt to repeat things."
"Well, then, Amy says you are a regular little liar and hypocrite, and she won't have any more to do with you. She says she has been patronized by you long enough."
"I did not know that I had patronized her at all," said Eva. "I am sure I never meant to do so."
"Yes, but then you see Amy is of such a jealous disposition that she thinks you mean to patronize her, whether you do or not!"
"She is naturally rather jealous, I think," said Eva; "but I can hardly believe that she called me a liar or a hypocrite!"
"She did, for I heard her!" said Dora. "I was in the store, picking out a pattern."
Eva might have asked who Amy was talking to, but she did not think of that.
"Well, all I can say is, that I am sorry!" said she, sighing. "But I hope Amy will think better of it. I am sure she will if she knows what is good for herself, for I know she cannot be happy while she is doing me such an injustice."
"So you really didn't speak to Eva this morning!" said Dora, joining Amy as she was walking homeward. "I did not bellow you would keep your resolution, but I was glad you did, especially after what Eva said."
"What did she say?" asked Amy, feeling rather ashamed as she spoke.
"Oh, she tossed her head, and said you had got a jealous fit; but she guessed you would get over it. You knew what was good for yourself too well to quarrel with her, and if you did you would get the worst of it—that was one comfort. You see, she thinks she has you under her thumb, so she can do as she pleases with you."
"She will find herself mistaken!" said Amy, proudly. "I am not dependent upon her, I am thankful to say."
"But, after all, Amy, when you are under so many obligations to her—"
"Under what obligations, I should like to know?"
"Why, doesn't she pay your school bills? I understood so."
"Of course not! My mother pays my school bills! What do you mean?"
"Well, Amy, you need not bite my head off. I don't wonder you are angry. I am sure I should be, but you needn't blame me. Anyhow, if I were you, I would show that I did not mean to be domineered over, or coaxed either. 'But Amy has such a way with her—she can twist any one round her finger,' as she says."
"She will not twist me round her finger," said Amy. "I am not such a fool as she takes me for."
Eva went home that night very much grieved. She had made many advances to Amy during the day, but they had all been repelled, and with so much coldness and rudeness that she did not know how to go any farther. She did not more than half believe what Dora had told her, and yet the words were not without their influence upon her mind.
"Amy must know she is wrong," she argued, "and that is what makes her so unwilling to make up. O dear! I don't know what to do! I believe I will tell mother all about it, and see what she says."
"How many times have you sighed during the last half hour, Eva?" asked Mrs. Morrison that evening, as she and Eva were sitting together knitting by the firelight.
The evenings were growing long and cool, and the open fire seemed very pleasant and cheerful.
"What is the matter?"
"I don't know, mamma—yes, I do know, too, I suppose!" answered Eva, rousing herself. "I did not know that I sighed, though."
"Has anything unpleasant happened in school?" asked Mrs. Morrison.
"Yes, mamma—that is, not exactly in school; but something very unpleasant has happened, and the worst of it is, I don't know what to do about it."
"Suppose you tell me the story," said Mrs. Morrison. "Perhaps I shall be able to advise you."
Eva sat down at her mother's feet on the rug, and told her the whole story as far as she knew it.
"Somebody has been making mischief," was Mrs. Morrison's comment.
"That is what I suppose, mamma, and I think I know who the somebody is. I believe it is Dora Hayes."
"You should not say so unless you have good reasons," said her mother. "Why do you think so?"
Eva told her reasons.
"It looks so, certainly," remarked Mrs. Morrison. "Well, Eva, it is always a great comfort when we can find a plain Scripture rule to guide our conduct in difficult places, and I think there is one which applies exactly to such cases as this."
"What do you mean, mamma?"
"'If thy brother trespass against thee go and tell him his fault between him and thee alone,'" repeated Mrs. Morrison. "Does not that rule seem to throw some light upon your path?"
"I don't know—yes, I suppose it does. And yet—after the way Amy has treated me to-day, I do not feel very much like going to her!"
"Take care, Eva! Don't listen to the whispers of pride. Remember you do not know what provocation Amy may think she has had."
"If she thought I had done wrong, why did not she come and tell me so, instead of sulking and refusing to speak to me?" said Eva.
"Perhaps she did not feel like it, after the way she thought you had treated her," said Mrs. Morrison, smiling. "At any rate, Eva, her conduct is not the rule for yours."
Eva sat silent for a few minutes. She had her pride as well as Amy, and she had been deeply mortified at the way in which Amy had repelled her really generous advances.
But Eva had this advantage over her friend, that she called her faults by their right names and combatted them as faults, instead of coaxing and nursing them as virtues.
"Well, mamma, I will do as you say," said she, at last. "I believe it will be the best way. I don't think Amy will refuse to hear me, and if she does, I shall be no worse off than I am now."
"That is right, my dear," said her mother. "But, Eva, don't forget to ask for grace to be gentle and humble. Remember 'Charity suffereth long and is kind.' Even if Amy is unreasonable, do not get out of patience with her. You do not know what provocation she may think she has received."
As soon as breakfast was over, Eva put on her hat, and set out to find Amy. Mrs. Preston lived in a pretty house in the suburbs, and Eva was tolerably sure of finding Amy at work in her flower-garden, where even at this late season she always found something to do.
Amy was busy among her flowers, as Eva expected, and just as Eva came up, Amy opened the side gate to throw some dry stems into the street. She started when she saw Eva, and seemed about to turn away, but Eva gave her no time. She walked up to her friend, and holding out both hands, said, with her usual frank manner: "Now, Amy, I want to have you tell me what all this trouble is about."
Amy colored. "Surely you know as well as I do!" said she, trying to speak coldly.
"I know nothing at all!" replied Eva. "Only that Dora Hayes says that you called me a liar and a hypocrite, and, as she has told me such a story about you, I think it very likely that she has told you something about me."
"It was what she told me you said that made me call you so!" said Amy, just ready to cry.
"So I supposed, and therefore I want to know what it was. Now let us sit down on the stops and have it all out. What did she say?"
Amy began to feel a little ashamed of herself, by this time, and to see that she had been hasty to believe evil of her friend. She began at the beginning and told Eva all that Dora had said about her.
"I thought she had had a hand in it," said Eva, when the story was finished. "She came to me in the first place and wanted to tell me something that I was never to tell—something somebody had said about me; but I told her that I always told mother everything, and that I never wanted to hear what people said about me, so she subsided. The truth of the matter is this. Dora was teasing me one day to give her my amber necklace, which I would not do."
"'You would give it to Amy Preston in a minute, if she asked you,' said she; 'you think more of that shop-girl than you do of me, though I am your cousin.'"
"'Well,' said I, half laughing, 'you see, Dora, Amy is a cheaper friend than you are. She never wants anything and you want everything.'"
"So much for that! As for the dress story, there is a little foundation for that, too. Dora asked me a few days ago if that was my old dress you were wearing."
"'Of course,' said I. 'Amy wears all my dresses and I wear hers. That is the way we show our regard for each other.'"
"'But don't you really give her dresses?' she asked."
"All the girls laughed, for every one knows how proud you are about receiving presents, Amy."
"And I said, to carry on the joke, 'To be sure I do! I buy all her clothes and books, and my father pays her school bills.'"
"You see, Amy—though you must not tell any one—papa really does pay Dora's school bills, and mamma gives her a great many things; and I thought perhaps by giving her such a hint, I would make her hold her peace, and so I did. As for the rest, it is a sheer manufacture out of whole cloth. I should think you ought to have known me better, Amy."
Amy colored scarlet. "Well, Eva, I suppose I ought, but then you see—there is such a difference—in short you are rich and I am poor, and if you were in my place, you would see how natural it is to be jealous."
"It may be natural, but I cannot think it's right," said Eva. "I don't think poor people ought to be jealous of rich people, any more than rich people ought to despise poor people. Besides, Amy, I should never think of calling you poor. But did Dora say anything else?"
"Never mind what she said," replied Amy. "I ought never to have listened to her. But it was not so much what she said as what she insinuated. However, I was a fool to mind her, for I know of old just what a mischievous thing she is. She has tried it upon me before. When I first came to school, she told me some of the girls made a fuss because I was a shop-girl, and I don't suppose there was any truth in that either."
"Not one word, I dare say. But now, Amy, promise me one thing. If ever you think I have done wrong, just come to me as I have come to you and ask me about it. If we do so, we shall never have any lasting quarrels, I am sure, and no tattler can make mischief between us. Isn't it almost time to go to school? I will wait for you and we will go together."
Amy kept Eva waiting while she went up to her own little room, and there in a short but earnest prayer, asked God's forgiveness for her jealousy and unkindness and begged Him to pour into her heart "that most excellent gift of charity, the very bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whosoever liveth is counted dead before Him."
Dora stared in wonder when she saw Amy and Eva enter the school-room in their old fashion, with their arms round each other's waists.
"So you two have made up your quarrel," she said, in recess, with her disagreeable laugh. "Well, it is a fine thing to have a forgiving temper, especially when it is so much to one's own advantage as it is to Amy's, in this case."
"There is nothing to forgive, as it happens," answered Eva, coolly. "Somebody told Amy a set of stories about me which were either entirely false or else misrepresented, but when she came to hear the truth it was all right again."
"Amy Preston, you are as mean as you can be," exclaimed Dora. "You promised not to tell."
"I did not promise not to tell," said Amy. "However, I did not tell."
"How did Eva find out then, I should like to know?"
"Because," said Eva, answering for her friend; "you came to me and told what Amy said about me. And I remember what I heard an old Scotch woman say about talebearers, that a dog which would fetch a bone would carry a bone."
Depend upon it, girls, the old Scotch woman's proverb speaks the truth. A person who will come and tell you a story about what somebody has said of you, will tell that person what you have said about them; and in neither case will the story be the exact truth. Never listen for a moment to such tales, if you can help it; and if you cannot help listening, let the words go "in at one ear and out at the other."
If, however, you think your friend has offended you, go and ask her about it kindly and frankly; and two to one the offence will vanish into thin air.
But again, I say, never listen to talebearers, for "the words of a talebearer are as wounds."
"Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out: so where there is no talebearer the strife ceaseth."—(Prov. xxvi. 20.)
ESTHER'S BAD DAY, OR, "I COULDN'T HELP IT." Frontispiece.
OR,
"I COULDN'T HELP IT."
IT was a good while after six and a very bright sunny spring morning, yet Esther was not yet out of bed, when somebody knocked at her door.
"O dear!" said she, in a sleepy, pettish tone, "I wish people would only let me alone a minute. Come in!"
The last words were spoken aloud, and a very pretty girl, some years older than Esther, opened the door. She was partly dressed and had her comb and brush in her hand.
"Why, Etty, not up yet!" she exclaimed. "I thought you would be nearly dressed. I came to ask if I might finish my dressing by your glass, for papa wants the painters to begin on my room as soon as they come."
"Of course you can," replied Etty, not very graciously, however. "What time is it?"
"About half-past six. You ought to be up, Etty."
"Oh, there is plenty of time."
"I don't know. Time slips away very fast in the morning."
Eleanor went back to her roam to look for something she wanted. When she came back, Etty had scrambled up to the end of the bed next the window, and, still in her night-gown, and with her hair hanging over her shoulders, was reading a story-book, which she had drawn from under her pillow. In the book, perhaps, might be found the cause of her morning sleepiness. When a little girl reads in bed till her candle burns out, she is apt to be rather heavy-headed next morning.
"You will be late for breakfast," said Eleanor. "I fear I shall be late myself, I have been so hindered; but, Etty, I am sure you will be behindhand."
"O no, I sha'n't. I can dress in ten minutes, easily."
"You cannot dress properly in ten minutes," said Eleanor, busily tying up her hair; "and, Etty, there is something else besides dressing to be done before you go down-stairs."
Etty shrugged her shoulders impatiently but made no answer.
Eleanor went on with her dressing, and said no more till she had finished. Then turning to, Etty, who was still reading, she said, seriously:
"Now, Etty, you have only fifteen minutes left. You may get ready for breakfast, perhaps, if you lose no more time."
"Do let me be, Eleanor!" answered Etty, angrily. "I know what I am about! I wish you would go away and mind your own business!"
"Very well," said Eleanor, and quietly gathering up her dressing things she left the room without another word.
Etty looked at the clock and then at her book.
"I will only read to the end of this paragraph," said she. "That will not take long, and I can easily get ready after that."
But it is not always easy to stop at the end of a paragraph, and Etty read on till she was startled by hearing the church clock strike seven, followed by the energetic ringing of the breakfast-bell at the foot of the stairs.
"O dear!" exclaimed Etty, throwing down her book and scrambling out of bed. "Now I shall be late again; that will be the third time this week, and uncle will be angry. It is all Eleanor's fault. She ought to have made me got up."
Etty hastened to dress, but as usually happens at such times, she found that the more she hurried, the less she got on. She broke her boot-lacing and could not find another. She had been in such a hurry to get to her story-book the night before, that she had neglected to braid up her hair, and it was all hanging in what nurses call "witch-knots," and the more she pulled at it, the worse it snarled.
"Now where is that ribbon! I am sure it was here last night. I suppose Eleanor has put it out of place. O dear, I do wish people would keep out of my room and let my things alone!" snapped Etty, tumbling over the things on the dressing-table.
"There, now!" As she spoke, she overturned a tall bottle of cologne, which, with its pretty bronze holder, had been one of her birthday presents. She had often been told never to set the bottle down out of the holder, but she had a trick of leaning it against the side of the glass.
The tall bottle fell on a pretty hand-mirror with a carved frame, and both were broken to pieces. At this new calamity, Etty burst into tears, and throwing her brush to the farther end of the room, she flung herself down on the floor and cried so as to be heard all over the house.
The family were becoming tolerably well used to Etty's "tantrums," and as they were at prayers, nobody moved till the prayer was finished.