Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
IMPROVEMENTS HAD BEEN MADE IN THE GREENHOUSE
AS WELL AS THE COTTAGE.
PROFILES
BY
PANSY (MRS. G. R. ALDEN)
AND
MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1888,
BY
D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
——————
[CLEAN HANDS] "Pansy"—Mrs. G. R. Alden
[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[CIRCULATING DECIMALS] " " "
[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[FISHING FOR PHIL] " " "
[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[OUR CHURCH CHOIR] " " "
[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[CHAPTER V.]
[CHAPTER VI.]
[CHAPTER VII.]
[HIS FRIEND] Mrs. C. M. Livingston
[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
["MY AUNT KATHERINE"] " " "
[THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS] " " "
[JUANA'S MASTER] " " "
[TEN BUSHELS] " " "
[MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS] " " "
[THE DOCTOR'S STORY] "Pansy"—Mrs. G. R. Alden
PROFILES
—————
[CHAPTER I.]
"AND I hope, Elsie, you will be careful, all the while you are gone, not to soil your hands."
They stood together in the hall, Elsie Burton and her pastor; he had held out his hand to bid her good-by, and added these words which brought a puzzled look to her eyes, and a rich glow of color to her cheeks.
What could Dr. Falconer mean? Elsie glanced swiftly down at her delicate, gracefully shaped hands, and then back to his face; he was not laughing; although there was a smile on his face, it was backed by an earnest gleam in his eyes that meant business. It was not probable that he was trying to rally her a little on the exquisite care which she took of those same hands, always managing to keep them in a state of dainty cleanliness, with the shapely nails of just the right length. No, that was simply absurd! In the first place, all respectable people took as good care of their hands as circumstances would admit, of course; and, in the second place, Dr. Falconer was not the man to rally people in regard to personal habits; he was too intensely in earnest for that, unless, indeed, there was some important end to be gained.
Could he possibly mean to refer to the fact that she took out her handkerchief, and carefully rubbed her hand, last Sabbath, after Teddy Reilly had held it! But there was certainly excuse for that; poor little Teddy's hand was so exceedingly dirty that it left its stain on the fair skin, and it was unnecessary, and therefore foolish, to draw on her delicate kid gloves over the brown marks, when a few passes of her handkerchief would efface them! She had waited until little Teddy was fairly out of sight; she would not have wounded his loving heart, nor indeed have missed the caressing from his dirty hand, for a great deal. Dr. Falconer certainly could not mean that.
She decided for frankness, as Elsie Burton was very apt to do. "Dr. Falconer, I don't in the least understand you; all people are careful of their hands, not to soil them more than is necessary in getting through this dirty world." The sentence closed with a little laugh, but the great bright eyes, fixed questioningly on his face, showed that Elsie was honestly in pursuit of light.
"Do you think so?" he said, and his voice was grave. "On the contrary, I think people are almost more careless of their hands than of any other organ which they possess. And hands soil readily, and are not easy to cleanse. Let me bring you a little book I have been reading; the marked passages in it will show you what I mean, and how I came to suggest my caution to you. I must not detain you longer, or you may miss your train. I have to call at the depot this morning, and I will give you the book there. I hope you will have a happy visit, and be the means of doing an incalculable amount of good."
"Oh! I shall not have much opportunity for doing either good or evil, Dr. Falconer; I am not going to be gone long enough. You know I have but a week's vacation."
"And you think a week not long enough to accomplish much! I see I shall have to mark another passage in my little book. Be sure to read the marked portion."
And then he was gone, and Elsie Burton went hurriedly about the final preparations for her journey. "Clean hands!" she repeated with a curious smile, as, having given the final touches to her brown hair, she applied the sweet-smelling soap lavishly, making a fine white foam in which to lave them. "I wonder what Dr. Falconer is aiming at! If he had told me to guard my tongue, I should have understood him without difficulty; but if there is anything about me that gets taken care of, I'm sure it is my hands." Whereupon she gave them an extra dash of fresh water.
Fairly seated in the East-bound express, shawl-strap and hand-satchel tucked away behind their proper lattice, herself by no means tucked into the corner, but spread out as luxuriously as a young lady of eighteen or so knows how to arrange, Elsie Burton had leisure to draw a long breath of satisfaction and look about her. The last few days had been so full of the bustle of preparation, combined with the closing hours of school, that she had had little leisure for anything. Now for the long-promised holiday week at Uncle Leonard's. Elsie Burton had few fittings from the home nest to remember. Indeed I may say that she was one of those fortunate young ladies who had never, until that time, been on the cars without either mother or father. A sweet, sheltered, happy life she had led, and a sweet, bright girl was she. Occasionally a little restless flutter had shown the mother-bird that her nestling longed to try her wings alone; hence this visit, promised and planned. And Elsie, curled comfortably in her seat, with the seat before her turned to receive her lunch basket and any stray apples or papers that she might purchase, felt that she was a little school girl no longer, but in the last half-hour had blossomed into a young lady.
"Take care of yourself, daughter," had been her father's last tenderly spoken message, a little anxious look about the eyes telling her that this business of trying one's wings was not so pleasant for the old birds as for those who wire experimenting; Dr. Falconer had added, with a meaning smile, "And remember the hands." This latter message lingered with her. She meant to take care of herself, to be so wise and prudent that both father and mother would be delighted with her. And of course she meant to take care of her hands! But the hint half-vexed her; she did not understand it, and felt for the little book which she had dropped into her pocket but a few minutes before. What a tiny book it was! Paper-covered too, but daintily illuminated; looking, indeed, as though it had been gotten up for choice moments.
"I wonder," said our young lady to herself, "if this bit of a volume can be a dissertation on the care of hands?" She laughed a little as she said it, and stopped to fasten the fourth button of her dark, neat, exquisitely-fitting kid gloves; her hands certainly looked well in them. She could not endure ill-shaped gloves, and as for wearing ripped ones, she never did it; nor, truth to tell, did she like to wear mended ones. It would have been a pleasure to her, on the discovery of the first rip, to have consigned the offending gloves to the waste bag, but this was by no means the teaching of her mother; so the shapely hands were sometimes marred—in the estimation of their owner—by mended gloves, albeit the mending was very neat. Dr. Falconer could hardly have meant that. Now she began to look for the marked passages. Marked passages? Why, the little book was full of them!
Could her pastor have expected her to spend the hours of her first journey alone in reading them all? Ah, no; here was one, marked in different colored ink, and on the upper margin of the page was her own name, "Elsie." This, then, was the portion meant for her. (Not a lengthy passage; she could accomplish so much with a fair hope of remembering it.) And she read, "It may seem an odd idea, but a simple glance at one's hand, with the recollection, this hand is not mine; it has been given to Jesus, and it must be kept for Jesus,' may sometimes turn the scale in a doubtful matter, and be a safeguard from certain temptations. With that thought fresh in your mind, as you look at your hand, can you let it take up things, which, to say the least, are not 'for Jesus'? Things which evidently cannot be used, as they most certainly are not used, either for Him or by Him. Can you deliberately hold in it books of a kind which you know perfectly well, by sadly-repeated experience, lead you farther from, instead of nearer to Him? . . . Books which you would not care to read at all, if your heart were burning within you at the coming of His feet? Next time any temptation of this sort approaches you just look at your hand."
Elsie Burton paused in her reading and looked down at her hand, a singular expression on her face. Given to Christ! Certainly it was true of her; she had given herself to Him and promised to be His disciple; yet never until this moment had occurred to her that even her hands actually belonged to this Master. What a strange idea! How singular it would be for one to stop and think whether her hands were doing what He would have them? Yet, why not? If they really were given to Him, what more reasonable than that they should be kept for His service?
Would that make any difference with the work of her hands, she wondered, supposing she had thought of them in this light before? Such dainty care as she had taken of them! Had she possibly soiled them in His sight? There were other marked bits in this strange little book, her name attached; she read on: "Danger and temptation to let the hands move at other impulses is every bit as great to those who have nothing else to do but to render service: and who think they are doing nothing else. Take one practical instance—our letter writing. Have we not been tempted (and fallen before the temptation), according to our various dispositions, to let the hand that holds the pen move at the impulse to write an unkind thought of another; or to say a clever and sarcastic thing, which will make our point more telling; or to let out a grumble or a suspicion; or to let the pen run away with us into flippant words?"
The rich color on Elsie's cheek was deepening every moment. This was certainly narrow ground. She felt herself jostled against. "Clever and sarcastic things" were so natural to her pen that they almost seemed to write themselves. What a ridiculous report she had given of Ned Holden's failure in geometry. How skillfully she had turned into ridicule his mortified attempts to recover himself. She had imagined her cousins, Carrie and Ben, laughing immoderately over the whole thing. Well, what harm? Her account of it would never reach poor Ned's ears: she would not have given it for anything had there been the least fear, but—what good did it accomplish? Had she written it with a purpose? Yes, she had; her purpose had been to give a few minutes' fun to her cousins. Anything wrong about that? Yet the truthful girl admitted to herself almost immediately that it was fun at the expense of certain fine feelings which she had jarred. Was she inclined to be so sympathetic with failures as she would be if it were not such fun to write them up? What a caricature she had made of Ned as he stood there on the platform, his face aglow, the eyes of a hundred girls leveled at him! She laughed again as she remembered how funny her picture was; but then she sighed. Soiled hands. Was it possible that she had soiled hers that day? Did Dr. Falconer mean such things? Did he know about the letter and the caricature? She felt her face grow hot over the possibility; she would not have him know it for anything! Here again was a revelation. Why not? And if not Dr. Falconer, surely not the Lord Jesus! Yet He knew.
There really was not much comfort in thinking about it. But Elsie decided that these things must be thought about and decided another time. If it really was wrong to repeat in a ludicrous way the ludicrous things that the boys, and sometimes the girls, and sometimes the professors were doing, why, then she must give it up; but it was great fun. Another marked sentence—her name again: "Perhaps one hardly needs to say that kept hands will be very gentle hands. Quick, angry motions of the heart will sometimes force themselves into expression by the hand, though the tongue may be restrained. The very way in which we close a door, or lay down a book, may be a victory or a defeat."
At this point Elsie closed the little book and laid it down with no gentle hand. She was vexed with it. What nonsense was this! The idea that when one banged the door a little with nobody around to see, and not meaning anything in particular, only a general vexation, one had dishonored Christ! That was straining a point! Just as if people could keep from doing those little things! And just as though they did any hurt! The little book was fanatical; she didn't like it at all.
What sent her back, just then, to her little class in Sabbath-school? seven or eight of the babies under her care. What verse was that which she had taught them only last Sabbath? "Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place?" That was the question she had asked. How had she taught them to answer? She seemed to see the sixteen little hands raised, while eight little voices repeated: "He that hath clean hands and a pure heart." Whose fanaticism was this? What had she herself taught those little ones that "clean hands" meant? Had she really meant that they, those babes in Christ, must carefully watch their small hands, lest they slam the door in anger or throw the book, and that she, Elsie Burton, eighteen years old and for four years a Christian, could do any of these trifles without soiling hers? It was illogical, certainly.
Yet, can I make you understand, I wonder, what a ferment all these little things set Miss Elsie into? They seemed so new to her; so unexpected. She was a bright young Christian; she desired in general, to honor her Master. Yet, like many another, she had selected great ways in which to honor Him, and, occasionally, at least, looked about for something large to do in His service, forgetting, or ignoring, many small daily opportunities. She liked her own way royally well, did this young lady; and when on occasion older wills in authority crossed hers, she submitted indeed; it would be unladylike to do otherwise, and Elsie Burton did not like to be unladylike; but she frowned and banged the door; yes, she did, a little, a very little, occasionally, and threw her books on the table with determination, and wrote sarcastic letters to her special friend, and grumbled occasionally to mamma. All these things she had rather looked upon as her perquisites; little personal rewards for submitting. In what a different way did the tiny book talk about them all!
She sat very still and thought it over. "It reaches too far," she told herself, catching her breath. "It would make perfectly awful work of living! Just think! One couldn't—oh dear! one couldn't do anything, without looking at it to see if it were just exactly the right thing to do. According to that doctrine, I don't belong to myself at all. Such fanaticism!"
"Ye are not your own; ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your bodies and your spirits, which are His." Who whispered that verse to her? It was not in the offending little book. Whose fanaticism was this?
Meantime the car had been filling up. Her luxurious turned seat had been unceremoniously returned, while she was too busy with her book even to frown. There come next a man with a child in his arms, and leading one by the hand; a commonly-dressed, jaded man; he looked about him right and left for a seat; vain hope; Elsie's was the only unoccupied one in the car. "May I sit here?" he asked meekly and prepared to seat himself, taking the other child on his knee, her small hand which was not of the cleanest coming in dangerous contact with Elsie's faultless bronze travelling suit. She saw it and twitched the skirt of her dress, not gently, away from the disagreeable member, muttering low as she did so, that the seat was "not intended for four persons."
"Perhaps one hardly need to say that the kept hands will be very gentle hands." She did not repeat the words, but they repeated themselves to her, in a way that startled. Once more she looked down at her hands. Was He actually dishonored by that quick, irritable movement? The face of the man beside her looked troubled; he had seen the movement and had reached forth and clasped the offending little hand in his own rough one. He looked very careworn, and the smaller of the children, who was but a baby, began to utter wailing cries which he vainly tried to hush. Hopeless little cries they were; they went, someway, to Elsie's heart. She was sorry her hand had been so un-Christ-like in its movement. How could she atone for it? She reached forth for her lunch basket, and drawing therefrom a rosy-cheeked apple presented it to the little girl. The small soiled hand grasped after it eagerly, and the father smiled and leaned forward to admonish the child to thank the giver. "They both look very tired," Elsie said, gently; "travelling is hard for children."
The man drew a heavy sigh. "It is hard for them," he said. "They miss their mother; they don't know what to make of it, and I don't know how to do for them as she would. I buried her last Tuesday."
[CHAPTER II.]
A DISMAYED exclamation from Elsie; then she added, "Poor little things!" in a tone that conveyed much to the sad father's heart.
"You may well say that," he said, getting out his handkerchief hastily, to wipe the great tears that would gather in his eyes. "Two babies, you may say, with no one but a blundering father to do for them! I'm bound to do the very best I can, but what's a man worth when it comes to such work as that! And them crying for their mother every little while! This one," touching the head of the older child with gentle hand, "couldn't get herself to go to sleep, no how, last night. I patted her, and coaxed her for an hour; but she said she 'wanted mamma too bad for anything.'"
There were tears in Elsie's eyes now, and she reached for the soiled little hand and gathered it tenderly into her gloved one. For the rest of that journey the motherless child had a friend. The baby slept on his father's shoulder; and Elsie devoted herself to making the five-year-old happy. Among other womanly offices, she took the child forward to the water-cooler, and by dint of patient use of handkerchief and some of her own sweet-scented soap, she made the small hands rosy with cleanliness. This was so that she could have a delicately tinted card from the lady's pocket. An illuminated card, with an outline picture of two hands clasped; the one a small, childish hand, the other large and firm, suggestive of strength and protection. There were words underneath, and the child demanded that they be read. It was one of Elsie's class cards, and the verse: "Who shall ascend into the Hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place? He that hath clean hands and a pure heart."
"It means, who shall go to live with Jesus in heaven?" explained Elsie.
The little girl looked gravely down at her small pink hands. "My hands are clean," she said, reflectively. "I guess I can go, mamma went. It was Jesus who took her."
Elsie's eyes dimmed again as she answered the child gently, "Yes, and He wants you; wants you to keep your hands clean, so you can go. Not simply clean with water, you know, but clean from every wrong and naughty thing."
The grave-eyed child considered. "I slap Johnnie, sometimes," she said, sadly, "when he's cross."
"Oh! And that soils your hands with the kind of soil that water will not wash away. Look at the picture; that little hand is clasped in a strong one; the picture is to make you think of Jesus' hand; He holds it out for you to put yours in it, so He can keep it safe from getting soiled."
"How?" said the child, looking puzzled. "Where is He? Why doesn't He hold His hand out to me?"
"He does, darling; you cannot see it, nor feel it, because He has not given you the kind of eyes yet with which to see Him; but if you give your hand to Him, and then ask Him every day to keep it from doing wrong things, and make it clean, He will; and by and by He will take you up to Heaven, where mamma is, and where you can see Him, and feel the touch of His hand."
Such sweet, serious eyes as that child had! She looked down at her small unmothered hand, in such a grave, considering way, as seemed almost too much for Elsie to bear; and at last she said, "I will do it; I mean to go to mamma." And the shadow of a smile was on her face—a serious little face, old beyond its years. Elsie did not wonder that the father wiped great tears away; but he grasped her hand heartily and said, "God bless you, ma'am, for showing the little girl how to smile. She hasn't smiled since—" and the sentence was left unfinished.
There was no time for further words. The car bell was ringing, and the dinner gong of the eating house was clattering, and the car was in a bustle of preparation to depart. Elsie gathered her wraps and packages, secured the little book which had told her strange truths, made tender by the practical commentary on them drawn from her new acquaintances, then shook hands with the little girl, bending to kiss her and whisper, "Remember."
"I will," the child said.
"And I will," murmured Elsie. "I must surely take the counsel which I have given her; else how could I bear to meet the child when we both see Him face to face?"
"Hurrah! here you are. I was afraid you did not come, after all. I left Carrie consumed with anxiety lest you had missed the train, or something."
It was Cousin Ben, face and voice full, of eager welcome. He seized upon Elsie's belongings as he spoke, managing shawl-strap and bag and bundles with the air of one long used to business; called for checks, and gave rapid, business-like orders to a porter in waiting, talking to Elsie incessantly all the time—at least, so it seemed to her.
"Now, shall we take a carriage or a sleigh? We have both at your service, you see; and the wheeling is so abominable that there is but one thing worse, which is the sleighing. The fact is, we have neither wheeling nor sleighing just now. Whichever way you take, you will be sure to wish you had chosen the other."
"Why can't we walk?" Elsie asked, laughing at his description and his volubility.
"Walk! A young lady, just arrived from a fatiguing journey of three hours' duration, walking up from the depot! I'm afraid Carrie will faint. Still, in all sincerity, it is much the better way, if one only thinks so. Do you honestly vote for it? Sensible young lady—the first one I have met this winter. Halloo, porter! That scamp has gone already, I declare! He will be back here, ready to earn another fifty cents, before we get started. I wanted to palm off some of these dry goods on him. O, no, not at all," as Elsie tried to offer her assistance; "they are not heavy, only slippery. This wretched little box is such a nuisance. I found it at the express office, and I wish I had left it there. Ah, well, now, if you insist, you may carry the box. It is small, you see, but slippery; seems to have an affinity for the pavement. I've landed it there once, already."
The small, compact box, neatly wrapped in paper, was transferred from Ben's crowded arms to Elsie's empty ones. Then the walk commenced. A bright sunny day, the air just keen enough to be exhilarating, and the business street down which their road lay was aglow with holiday trappings. A walk was certainly not an unattractive thing. Yet there was a cloud on Elsie's face; and if her gay cousin had been watching her, he would have discovered that she bestowed suspicious glances on the innocent-looking box which she carried. It was not its weight that disturbed her; that was a mere trifle. What then? She watched her opportunity, when Ben was busy re-arranging his load, and unceremoniously applied her nose to the box. Faugh! It was as she suspected. Here was she, Elsie Burton, who hated the sight and smell and very name of the vile weed tobacco, actually carrying a box of cigars through the street! She could have dropped them into the muddy carriage drive, across which they were just picking their way, with a good grace.
"I wonder if Ben smokes!" This was her indignant mental query. "I declare, if that boy has gone and spoiled himself in such a hateful way, I shall drop him." There were certain phases of moral courage in which Elsie was by no means lacking. She was entirely willing to express then and there, to her handsome young cousin, her utter and intense abhorrence of everything pertaining to tobacco; and the probabilities are strong that her very manner of doing so would have outwitted any good which she desired to accomplish; that is, if she really wished to accomplish anything beyond expressing her indignation. Something quieted her just then. The memory of certain words: "Can you let it take up things which, to say the very least, are not 'for Jesus'?" Suppose people really did govern their lives by such rules as that? Suppose Ben did. Would he be carrying home cigars to smoke? What a thing it was that he had been the one to lead her unwittingly into this first soiling of her hands! Almost before she realized that she was doing so, she spoke her thoughts aloud: "Oh, Ben! You have made me soil my hands."
Her cousin turned to her quickly, his face expressive of concern. "I beg ten thousand pardons! Was I such a stupid dolt as to give you a soiled paper to carry? What is it? Are your gloves ruined?" But he looked in vain for soil; the delicate bronze gloves were as delicate as before she touched the box, and the neat manilla wrapping was guiltless of a stain.
Elsie laughed a little. "I was thinking aloud," she said. "I did not mean my gloves, but my hands. Ben, I don't like the soil of cigars."
"Are they so very offensive to you?" This with a puzzled air. "It isn't possible that you get their odor at this distance!"
"O, Ben! You know you are not stupid. Why do you pretend that you don't understand me to mean moral soil?"
"Upon my word, I never thought of such a thing!" And Ben stared at his cousin in genuine astonishment. "Isn't that straining a point, my wise little cousin?"
"Is it? Suppose I believe that my hands should do nothing to help along anything that is wrong in the world, could I, in that case, handle cigars much?"
"That depends. Are cigars wicked?"
Elsie flashed a pair of keen eyes on him. "Are cigars good?"
He laughed good-naturedly. "Why, no; I haven't been in the habit of attaching any moral character to them whatever."
"Very well; then why do you pretend that I am talking about their moral character? The question is, do I believe that it is wrong to spend money for cigars, and to spoil one's breath, and poison the air that belongs to other people with their vile odors? In that case, I must be consistent with my belief, and not let my hands help along that which I consider mischievous."
"Pitch them into the gutter if you want to," he said, good-humoredly. "You see they are not mine; I promised to bring them up for Hal; so I can afford to be generous."
"Does Hal smoke?"
"Like a furnace. I won't tell him, though, that you helped the matter along. I'll appear to have carried the offending box every step of the way myself."
But Elsie did not smile. "If I were Emmeline," she began, then stopped.
"What then? Supposing I can stretch my credulity enough to imagine anything so preposterous."
"Never mind; perhaps I ought not to say it."
"But it will do no harm for me to guess it. In the light of your last sharp remarks, I fancy you were going to say: If I were Emmeline I would not marry a cigar smoker.'"
"It is true," Elsie said, laughing a little, "I wouldn't."
"Really? Are you serious about this thing? Do you honestly think there is anything so very wicked about smoking a cigar now and then?"
"What a way to put it! As if a thing must be 'so very wrong' in order to be—not right. As to the 'now and then'—Oh, if you needed a lecture, Ben, I think I could give it; I've thought a great deal about the matter; but just now I was looking at it from such a simple platform that it doesn't need argument. Hal, you know, is a Christian, and he professes to govern all his life by one rule, as a servant who belongs body and purse to Christ. How very easy it would be for him to decide whether he ought to spend his money on cigars!"
Ben, I regret to say, was guilty of the ungentlemanly act of whistling. A low whistle, instantly suppressed, but it expressed his views. "How many Christians do you suppose govern themselves by any such rules?"
"The question has nothing whatever to do with the argument," Elsie said; "but I'll answer it. Very few, I think. Does that annihilate the rule?"
"How fortunate it is for me that we are just at the door," Ben answered, gayly. "Give me the box of cigars, quick; and don't convert Emmeline to your way of thinking, or we shall have no wedding to attend."
I do not know whether, had Elsie known all the temptations and embarrassments to beset her on that very next day, she would have been able to make so emphatic a resolution as the one with which she left the car. A shopping excursion was in order for the morning. Cousin Carrie had a dozen trifles which must be bought that day, and it suited Ben to attend them gallantly all the morning. Now shopping was not a trial to Elsie; it had all the charm of novelty for her, for hitherto her busy young life had known comparatively little of it. On this particular morning the circumstances were particularly agreeable. She had no grave responsibilities, but was merely an interested looker-on, ready to give bits of advice as occasion offered; while nestled away in her pretty porte-monnaie were two shining gold pieces which her father had given her that morning to spend as she pleased. Oh, the charming things that a girl of eighteen may please to buy! Cousin Carrie was a helpful companion in that direction. She had wide-open eyes, and dealt in superlatives:
"Oh, Elsie! Do look at this lovely shade in kids. Aren't they perfectly exquisite? Just your number, too, and, match your new hat exactly. Really, Elsie, you ought to have a pair of those. I never saw a more perfect match."
Elsie looked interested but doubtful. "I have just bought new gloves," she said, "and they match nicely, I think."
"Oh, they do; they are charming. But these are that lovely, peculiar shade which one so rarely finds in kid—just the tint of your long plume. Oh, I do think they are too lovely for anything!"
"They are expensive."
"Oh, I don't think so. Only two and a quarter. You can't get really good kid for less than that, and poor gloves are not worth buying. Besides, they have the Foster fastenings. Now I really dote on Foster fastenings."
Elsie was being persuaded. They did look as though they would fit her shapely hand so well, and they really were a remarkable match. What if she had just bought a pair? Gloves would keep and would be always needed. Mamma approved of good gloves, and papa had told her to spend the gold pieces just as she pleased.
"Well," she said, a slight hesitation still in her voice, "I think I'll—" and she glanced down at her hands.
"Next time any temptation of this sort approaches you, just look at your hand." It was to Elsie as though the words were written on the back of her glove, so distinctly did she seem to see them. A temptation of what sort? Was this box of gloves in the list? "Can you let it take up things, which, to say the least, are not for Jesus?" Were the gloves for Him? The question startled her, seemed a little irreverent, yet she was a clear-brained girl and knew what the query meant.
Was she buying them because she felt that she needed them to complete a neat and tasteful toilet? If—it was a sufficiently startling thought to make the color run into her cheeks, yet she thought it—if the Lord Jesus Christ stood there in the flesh, occupying the space at her side now filled by Cousin Ben, would she spend two dollars and a quarter for an unneeded pair of gloves? Should the hand belonging to Him do aught that His glance would not approve?
She was ready to finish her sentence. "I think I will not take them, Carrie. I have gloves enough for the present, and the styles may change, before I need them."
"What nonsense! These are in the very latest shade. I never saw any quite like them before. I wish they would match anything of mine and would buy them in a moment, although Auntie gave me a full box of gloves at Christmas. How many pairs have you, Elsie?"
This question amused Ben wonderfully. "An official report, if you please," he said, his eyes twinkling with laughter. "How many handkerchiefs have you, and how many ribbons and how many ruffles? Do you young ladies keep an inventory for each other's special benefit?"
Elsie laughed, but Carrie turned from her coldly. She set her heart on managing the glove matter, and it was ignominious to fail.
[CHAPTER III.]
THIS is but a faint specimen of the ways in which temptation assailed the fair hands in whose stewardship two gold pieces had been placed. It seemed to Elsie a curious coincidence that the first temptation should have to do with a covering for those hands. But for that she might not have gotten through so well.
It was wonderful, the number of articles that Carrie found which she was sure her Cousin Elsie needed and ought to purchase; delicate laces of a peculiarly rare and choice pattern that might not be found again; soft, fluffy ruches particularly becoming to Elsie's face; fine handkerchiefs, delicately embroidered, sold at a bargain; a peculiar perfume, the like of which had never been smelled before; even scented soaps joined hands with Elsie's companions that day and tried to beguile her; yet she stood firm.
It was a curious experience. Could she have divested herself of personal feeling, and looked on as an outsider, she would have enjoyed the study. There was absolutely nothing presented which stood the test. His hands, they must make no purchase save such as would please their Master.
"I cannot think what is the matter with you!" Carrie said, watching her cousin curiously. "You used to be ready enough to buy pretty things. I've seen at least a hundred and fifty articles this morning that I should have bought if I had as much spending money as you have. Papa keeps me dreadfully close these days; everything has to be saved for Emmeline. I tell papa just to wait until I get engaged, and I'll be revenged. It can't be that you are saving up for that, Elsie; you are not out of school yet."
Through it all Ben watched with amused face, not helping his cousin in the least; on the contrary, he made several wise suggestions as to the utility of some of the temptations.
"It is worse than cigars, isn't it?" he queried at last, his wicked eyes dancing mischievously. Elsie felt that he was amusing himself at her expense—turning her scruples into ridicule. Would it not be better to lay aside her new ideas, and change the current of his thoughts by disposing of the spending money that seemed to be the cause of so much trouble? Wasn't it a sort of "casting pearls before—" and here she paused; partly because she did not like to apply the simile, and partly because her brain was too keen to admit of such reasoning. If Ben chose to be led into sin through her conscientious effort to do right, he must bear the blame of it.
But she was to be tried in a way that was harder to bear. Carrie, positively vexed because she could not persuade her cousin into buying, at the jewel counter, a lovely little charm for her chain, turned from her and spoke to Ben in a very poor undertone: "I don't understand Elsie. I'm afraid she is growing penurious, and that is really a more hateful fault in a girl than in a boy. She used to be so free and generous with her money."
"Perhaps Uncle Wells keeps her close," was Ben's hateful suggestion. "He is well off, to be sure, but he may not be growing liberal as he grows older."
Dear! You should have seen the flush on Elsie's face then! The idea of that upstart of a boy daring to speak so about her dear father! He was not rich either, and everybody knew he denied himself to have the more to give to others. For a moment Elsie wondered whether she did not hate her Cousin Ben—just a little!
Also, she felt just like dashing out in some wild expenditure that would show her cousins how indifferent she could be to money when she chose. What should she buy? There was plenty of opportunity. Just next door in the plate-glass window stood temptations enough. Grapes, out of season, large; white, luscious. They were marked fifty cents! Suppose she should buy a bunch for herself, and one each for Carrie and Ben, and two or three bunches to take home to Aunt Carrie? Beside them was a silver-papered box of choice bonbons, marked one dollar; she might add that and a bouquet of rare flowers. Would not these expenditures show that she knew how to use money and had it to use?
Her hand was on the door-knob. She was burning with the desire to slip in next door and make her purchases while Carrie studied over shades of ribbons. Suddenly she withdrew the hand quickly, as though it had come in contact with something that repelled it. "Clean hands!" To what base uses was she about to put hers! Why did she want to buy the fancy bonbons and the fruits and flowers out of season? As a tribute of love? Her honest heart told her that it was rather a tribute of anger! Did her father's reputation rest on such slight ground that it could be injured by the ignorant chatter of a silly boy, or be built up by a daughter's ill-humored extravagance? Very much astonished with, and ashamed of, herself, Elsie turned away, and stood quite still for a moment, eyes and head drooping. After that, she was better prepared for the rest of the hour, even though the cousins chose next a way of being cousinly that was almost unendurable. Ben actually bought some of the great white grapes, and forced a few on her, though she felt as though it would take but one to choke her. The truth is, fair Elsie, during that and several following days, took lessons in the fact that Satan makes sharp battle for every power of our being; and that the cross is still waiting to be borne; the only reason that we feel its weight so little being the fact that we have fallen into the habit of slipping quietly around it, instead of boldly taking it up.
The curtains were drawn and the gas was lighted in the cosy back parlor. Without the rain was steadily falling, and there was a rush of wind every few minutes against the casement, which sharpened the contrast between the dreary outside and the brightness of the home scene within.
Over the family there had come the sort of lull which follows special days of eager life and keen excitement. There had been the whirl of preparation for, and then the excitement of participation in, wedding festivities, and then the bustle of departure. Emmeline and Hal were made one, and had gone away together, Elsie taking note, with much inward disgust, that the groom actually smoked a cigar at the depot, while waiting for the belated train.
Now those who tarried behind had reached a stormy Saturday evening, with nothing to do but lounge amid the easy chairs and rest and visit.
Somewhat to their astonishment, they found this dull work. The reaction from so much excitement was upon them, and many a yawn was hastily covered so that the others might not suspect.
"Somebody read something," proclaimed Ben at last. "We are all too indolent to talk—let some fellow who knows how talk for us. Who will volunteer?"
"Elsie must read," said Carrie. "Papa says she is the best reader in the set. I've been sulky over that remark ever since he made it, so of course I will not."
Some gay talk followed this statement, but at last they settled down to listen. Elsie, by no means unwilling to be appointed reader, for, like most persons who are accustomed to reading aloud and who like to do it, she hated to listen.
The book selected was a recent publication by a popular author. It opened well, and in a very few minutes the listless company was giving absorbed attention.
A half-hour passed, and then a dismayed, "Oh! Dear! Who is coming to disturb us!" from Carrie, mingled with the sound of talking in the hall.
A moment more, and the relieved exclamation, "It's only Freem!" greeted a newcomer.
"Freem," or Mr. Freeman Vance, was a gentleman who was much at home with the young people of the house, and, during her visit Elsie had met him several times. He was older than the cousins, having passed beyond the age in which he was spoken of as "one of the boys." Carrie called him a "full-fledged young man," but admitted that he was "nicer" than most of them.
He dropped readily into an easy chair, drawn up near the grate, murmured that this was delightful, and that it was a wretched night outside, then begged that the reading might go on; there was nothing that he enjoyed better than listening to a good reader.
There was a heightened color on Elsie's cheeks, but it was not brought there by the implied compliment. She knew that she was a fairly good reader. To-night, however, she was giving only partial attention to the book. With by far the keener portion of her brain she was carrying on an argument somewhat after this fashion: "I don't know about this book. There are some queer expressions in it; I doubt whether papa would approve. I wonder if that sentence is really intended as a covert sneer at religion? I don't believe I like to hear the Bible quoted in just this manner. Mamma wouldn't call that girl prudish; she would think she showed a proper degree of self-respect."
You are to understand that these mental comments did not all rush forward at one time and demand attention, but presented themselves at intervals during the reading. Yet the doubt in Elsie's mind about the book grew so rapidly that, just as Freeman Vance was announced, she had almost resolved to declare boldly her objections and decline to read. But his coming had made this a doubly difficult thing to do. Poor Elsie felt instinctively that she stood alone; she was breathing an atmosphere so unlike the one in which she had been reared that it would be almost impossible to make her audience understand her scruples. She shrank from trying. "What mattered a few pages of a book?" she told her conscience. She need not admire the book; certainly there was no danger that she should. Once through with this disagreeable evening, and she need never look into it again.
So the reading continued. And the mental arguments continued, also, for to the reader's wide-open eyes the sentiments expressed did not grow less objectionable. It was not that they were pronounced in their form; there was neither downright mockery of things sacred nor downright ridicule of things pure. It was simply like many a book which is being read in parlors; full of delicately-served, sugar-coated poisons. And it was commended, too, in a general way, by some of the very newspapers that might have been expected to stand guard over its intrusion into Christian homes.
It was charmingly written. The pale hero was so fascinating in his manner that, when he languidly quoted a moral lie and gracefully propped it with arguments, you, being eighteen and guileless, could not help admiring him a little.
Yet did Elsie read under protest. "Mamma" appeared before her frequently, with keen eyes and clear brain, and swept away a filmy web which would hide a falsehood from less cultured minds. "Papa's" strong logic came often to mind to overthrow some subtle reasoning. Dr. Falconer's very last sermon loomed up before her once, text and all, to refute utterly a hint which the pale hero put forth.
If Freeman Vance had not appeared on the scene the book would certainly have been laid aside; but how utterly foolish would her position appear to him! He would call her a prude, as she had heard him call a young lady who had been the subject of conversation the other day. She knew just how his lip curled when he said it. Not that she cared for Freeman Vance's opinion, she told herself; but, then, nobody liked to be talked about. As she reached this conclusion she turned another leaf. The interesting hero was in the midst of a statement given with as much energy as he ever used, and, by way of emphasizing his point, he used an unmitigated oath.
"Can you deliberately hold in your hand books of a kind which you know perfectly well lead you farther from instead of nearer to Him?"
The quotation came to the reader suddenly, with almost as much force as though it had been spoken by an audible voice. She made an instant's pause—the oath unread—and looked down at her fair hands. They were being soiled! There was no question in her heart about it. With a sudden, impulsive movement, she spread open her hands with a repellent gesture, as though she recoiled from the thing touched, and the book fell to the floor. Freeman Vance sprang to return it and Carrie gave a nervous start.
"Why, Elsie Burton, what is the matter? You made me drop six stitches off my hook."
"Is there a ghost on that page?" queried Ben, mischief in his voice.
"No," said Elsie, her courage and her color rising. "I think it is a serpent. Thank you, Mr. Vance; I don't want the thing again. I have had quite too much of it. You must all excuse me from farther reading of that book. I am not in sympathy with the morals or the manners of its characters. I am ashamed that I have allowed myself to read it so long."
"I'll venture that it is another case of 'soiled hands,'" Ben said, nothing but amusement in his voice.
His cousin turned toward him with flashing eyes. "Yes," she said, "it is."
[CHAPTER IV.]
THEN began a babel of tongues. The book was "elegant!" "Charming!" Everybody said it was the best one from that popular writer's pen. The "critics were just raving over it." "Certainly it was written in a most fascinating manner."
These were some of the statements which Elsie seemed to be expected to answer. She had very little to say. The truth was, she felt painfully conscious of the fact that many of her arguments would sound to this company like an unknown tongue. What did they know of loyalty to the Master who owned her, heart and hands? What wild fanaticism would they think it, if she said that she felt herself to have dishonored Christ, in having lent her hands and her voice to the book which she had just dropped?
Yet she said this, speaking steadily, albeit with glowing cheeks. She felt it to be the least that she could do, as His witness, to speak the simple truth, and bear the storm of words, the incredulity, the laughter, the raillery; and the almost more disagreeable attempt to be patient with her, as with an ignorant child, fresh from country life and country ideas.
"Oh, well!" said Carrie, at last. "We might as well save our breath, as to coax her after she has made up her mind. You always were an obstinate child, you know, Elsie, my dear. Ben, suppose you read."
"Not I," said Ben, with emphasis. "It is my brains, instead of my hands, that I am afraid of; I never had the proper amount to bear me out in reading aloud. Vance, will you volunteer?"
An expressive shrug of shapely shoulders was the young man's only reply, but it seemed to be considered decisive.
"Then we must give it up," Carrie said, great vexation in her voice.
"What shall we do? I'm too dull to talk. Oh, I'll tell you, let's have a game. Freem Vance, I owe you a grudge for beating me, the last time we played. Get the cards, Ben, and I'll see if I cannot redeem my reputation in that line."
Ben laughed good-humoredly, but made no attempt to obey.
"You are dull to-night, Carrie, duller than usual, that's a fact, if you have any idea that our fair cousin will let her hands go so far astray as to dabble with cards."
"Well, I should like to know why not. There is no irreligion about them, certainly, poor little innocent things! Elsie, you will play a game with us, won't you?"
"Thank you," Elsie said, trying to make her voice sound natural; "I never play cards."
"Oh, that's of no consequence! You can easily learn. Ben, you could teach her in five minutes, so she could play with you, couldn't you?"
"Doubt it exceedingly. There is an insurmountable objection, I fancy. Unless I am mistaken, she will decline to be taught."
"No, she won't; we can't make up a set without her, and she will not be so disagreeable as to refuse. Come, Elsie, you will be accommodating, won't you?"
Poor Elsie felt like nothing so much as bursting into tears, and running away, but she stood her ground bravely.
"I am sorry to appear unaccommodating, Carrie, but Ben is right; I cannot play cards any better than I can read that book."
"What is the matter with cards?" There was a sneering tone to Carrie's voice; perhaps it was well for Elsie that such was the case. Sneers were apt to give her courage.
She choked back the tears, and tried to answer lightly: "They are innocent enough, I suppose; it is the rough handling that the poor things get to which I object."
"That is begging the question. Our professor of rhetoric says people always do that when they are unable to prove their statements. I am tired of hints and sanctimonious flings. Everything is wicked nowadays. You used to have as much life in you as anybody; if there is any reason for such pokiness, I should like to hear it. Why won't you play cards?"
"The prisoner will stand and answer to the solemn charge preferred against her."
This from Ben. His sister's manner was so dictatorial that he was ashamed of her, and was inclined, in a rollicking way, to aid Elsie. She glanced toward him, smiling, then turned to Carrie.
"Why, Caroline, my dear, you surely do not need the ordinary arguments against card-playing quoted to you! Everybody who has given any thought to the subject understands them, and it wouldn't make them any plainer or more forceful to quote them. For myself, I am sure I need only give you one. My father and mother do not approve of the amusement."
Ben gave a curious little laugh at this point. "No more do ours, eh, Carrie?" he said.
"Nonsense!" returned that young lady sharply. "I'm sure papa said only the other night that times were changed since he was young, and lived in the country. A great many people who live in little country towns get narrow views of things, breathe them in the atmosphere which surrounds them; but that is no reason they should hold to them when they get a chance to see the world. I don't know what you mean, Ben; I'm sure papa has never forbidden us to play cards. I am going to have a game—I know that; and if Elsie won't play, I'll call Mary down. She will like the fun of joining us."
"Mary" was the fourteen-year-old sister who was tolerated only occasionally among the older young people.
As Carrie arose to summon her, Mr. Freeman Vance spoke the first sentence he seemed to have considered himself called upon to utter since the conversation commenced.
"At the same time, Miss Carrie, suppose you secure little Belle to take my place. I do not feel equal to cards this evening."
Whereupon Ben burst into hearty laughter. "Amusement under difficulties, upon my word!" he said, as soon as he could speak. "What shall be done with them, Carrie?"
"Oh, well!" Carrie said, returning to her seat with an offended air. "Since you are all disposed to be so very accommodating, you may entertain yourselves. I'm sure I shall make no farther attempt. It is the first time I ever knew you, Freem Vance, to decline cards. You are playing a new game to-night, I should think."
Whereunto this embarrassing and ill-humored conversation would have grown, I cannot tell you; for at that point occurred an interruption, in the shape of a summons for Ben.
His father desired to see him at once, in the library, on a matter of business.
And no sooner had he, with a little good-humored grumbling, departed, than Carrie unceremoniously left the room by another door, and the two guests were alone together.
I am aware that I have had to present Miss Carrie to you in a very unfavorable light. As a rule, she was good-humored and ladylike, and, being a year or two older than Elsie, was in the habit of being looked up to by her. But, being a young woman without a settled purpose of life or a guiding motive for speech or action, she was left, more or less, at the mercy of the passing mood; and the excitements of the past few days had served to unsettle her nerves to an unusual degree.
Left to themselves, an embarrassing silence followed. Elsie did not know how to commence a conversation with this cultured man of the world; especially, after the experiences of the last hour.
It was he who finally led the way:
"Would you mind giving me some of your objections to card-playing for amusement? I think I am not well posted as you suppose your cousin to be."
There was neither banter nor sarcasm in his voice; instead, he seemed to be in earnest. But Elsie, full of sparkling logic for the boys and girls, was unused to arguing with a gentleman, and hesitated.
"Don't they become snares to some young men, and lead them into temptation and misery sometimes?" she said at last.
He seemed surprised at the answer, and waited a moment before he said, "I think they do; but it does not seem to me that your cousin Ben is tempted in that direction."
"I was not thinking of him at all. If any person came to mind it was little Teddy Reilly, my Sabbath-school boy, whose father is a professional gambler, and who lives in an atmosphere of impurity. I want to keep my hands so clean from all such things that there shall never be the possibility of his associating me with them. And the world is full of Teddy Reillys; we may meet them when we do not know it, and influence them when we are not thinking of such a thing. Besides, I have two little brothers. I don't want them ever to find in gambling saloons anything that will remind them of home and home pleasures."
"I am answered," he said, smiling; but there was nothing unpleasant in the smile.
After a little, he spoke again, still in the same gentle tone: "Would it be disagreeable to you to tell me what you meant, a little while ago, about the book, and what Ben's reference to 'clean hands' had to do with it?"
This question caused the color to deepen on Elsie's cheeks. Such things were harder to explain; she doubted his ability to understand.
"It began with Dr. Falconer, my pastor," she replied, hesitatingly. "He said, when he bade me good-by, that he hoped I would be careful not to soil my hands. Then he lent me a little book of Miss Havergal's, and I read it on the cars. There were marked passages in it, about hands having been given to Christ and being kept for His service. One sentence is, 'Can you let your hands take up things which, to say the least, are not for Jesus? Can you deliberately hold in it books of a kind which you know perfectly well lead you farther from, instead of nearer to, Him?' I thought of that all the time I was reading the book; and at last, when it came to a direct profanation of His name, I dropped it. I wish I had done so before."
"It is narrow ground," said Freeman Vance.
"Yes, it is. I am amazed to see how it hedges one in. One of my Sabbath-school verses is, 'He that hath clean hands and a pure heart.' I have been very careful to teach the children what the words mean, and that has made them plainer to myself, I think. At home, with my father and mother, the way is plain enough, and bright and pleasant, but in this atmosphere things are hard. I think I need mamma to-night."
Her lip was quivering. With the quotation of the Bible verse, Freeman Vance had shaded his face with his hand. He made no response to her words, and she struggled silently for composure.
At last he spoke again; a quiet voice, but it revealed a good deal of suppressed feeling.
"Cards are a great temptation to me. I am very fond of them, and, like you, I need my mother, and can never have her any more."
"Oh!" said Elsie, and the sympathy she put into that word must be imagined, not described. "You need Jesus, Mr. Vance. If you give your hands to Him, He will keep them and you."
There were footsteps in the hall. Carrie, ashamed apparently of her ill humor and rudeness, had returned in a better mood. But there was no more conversation. Freeman Vance arose almost immediately, saying that he had but waited to bid her good-night.
"You have made an enemy of poor Freem," Carrie said, trying to laugh, as the outer door closed after him. "He thinks an evening without cards is a dreadful bore. People do say that he plays for something besides amusement. But he has so much money that I suppose he thinks it no harm to throw away some of it if he wants to. They say he never keeps any that he wins. It seems a pity, though, to have him play with those fellows. I always keep him at cards just as late as I can, so that he will not be tempted to go to the saloons."
But Elsie had no answer for this phase of virtuous self-abnegation. She was sore-hearted and disappointed. The world was not the beautiful thing she had thought it. The shelter of home and mother were treasures to be prized. The atmosphere of home was something to look forward to with longing. The week was gone; she was glad of it. On Monday she was going home. But—and here was the place for tears—she had disappointed herself. She was not going back with hands as clean as she had hoped. They were stained. His hands? Yes, but not kept always sheltered in His grasp. And her lips had spoken few words for Him.
Here was this young man, Freeman Vance, in danger, it seemed, and motherless; and she had met him every day for a week, several times a day, indeed, and to-night's stammering sentence had been the first that she had ever spoken to him of Christ. What a servant was she?
It was evening, and it was raining; and in the back parlor there was a fire in the grate, throwing its bright gleams of light over the room and playing gayly with the pictures on the walls.
Two easy chairs were drawn near to the grate, that their occupants might the better enjoy the play of firelight and shadow. In one of them sat Elsie Burton. A trifle over a year older than when you saw her last. Not changed much, unless the brightness on her face has toned into something softer, something which, while it belongs still to the freshness of girlhood, hints of the coming woman.
The parlor is not the same in which you last saw her. It is her father's own.
Elsie graduated a few weeks ago, just a little past nineteen; but she preferred to spend the following months in the quiet of her own home, though Cousin Carrie eagerly urged the delights of the great city upon her.
The other occupant of an easy chair I presume you would also recognize, though he, I think, is more changed than Elsie; but you would like the change. I don't remember whether I told you that Freeman Vance was a handsome man. A year ago, if you are a careful student of human nature, you would have been a little troubled over the face. Handsome dark eyes, but with an unrest about them that made you not sure of his future. Handsome, quiet mouth, but with a look of strength about it, or of firmness; and to be firm in a wrong direction means obstinacy—means danger. And about the whole man there had been a certain something which told you that he thought himself master of himself; and when a man thinks that, wise people know that he is a slave.
But he was changed. What is the change which comes into these handsome, manly faces, when their owners give themselves over, body and soul, into the keeping of the King? Is it a stamp of the King's signet ring? Is it a hint of the coming fulfillment—"We shall be like Him when we shall see Him as He is"? Whatever it is, you saw it plainly on Freeman Vance's face.
"It is singular that it rains." This was what he was saying.
"Why?" The word mellowed into a happy little laugh. The laugh said: "Let it rain, and let the wind sigh and moan among the leafless branches; I don't care in the least; the night, and the darkness, and the sighing are as nothing to me; they are all 'without,' and I am hedged in, and sheltered, and safe, and happy."
"It rained, that night, you know. I remember just how the drops sounded on the window-pane, and how the wind moaned, and shook the trees angrily because it could not get in at you. It seemed to know that it would never be able to touch you, and to know, also, that in a few minutes I would have to come out to it in the darkness and be whirled whither it would."
"What a dreadful picture!" Still there was content in the voice. "I remember the night, and the rain, and the wind; but I did not think you noticed it, or cared whether it touched me or not. Carrie said I offended you that evening."
"Poor Carrie! It is difficult to conceive of a young lady making less of life than she is doing."
"How is it with Ben? He is getting on well, is he not?"
"Splendidly! The dear fellow! I saw him last night. Some memory of old times came over us, and he spoke of that very evening; said he should have reason to remember it forever; though it was words spoken on the first day of your coming, during the walk up from the depot, he said, which set him to thinking."
"No one ever acted less as though he were thinking! I was sure that he was simply amused with me, as a little country dunce. Many a time he helped to make it hard for me."
"I presume so; trying the temper of the steel. Ben is developing well. He is the chief dependence of the young men's meeting in his church; and he has a great deal of influence over the boys younger than himself. Fenton tells me that he has about broken up the card-parties which used to be so fashionable in that set; not by any aggressive measures, you know—just a steady, quiet influence.
"'Clean hands,' he said to me last night. 'That is my motto, Freem.' And there were tears in the dear fellow's eyes. You did good work in the field during that one week, little Elsie. Went into the enemy's ranks and captured right and left."
"I remember," said Elsie, when the laughter and the blushing over part of this sentence had subsided—"I remember I cried that night, because I felt that I had spent such a useless week, and, after all my resolutions, was coming home with soiled hands and stained heart. God was very good to own my feeble, blundering attempts. Poor Carrie thought I cried because I had offended you."
"Poor Carrie!" repeated Arr. Vance, laughing a little. Then both of them sighed. The year that was past had not improved Cousin Carrie.
"Does Ben know—" began Elsie, then stopped. Mr. Vance seemed able to understand half sentences.
"Ben does not know anything, except where I am gone for vacation; but I think he suspects a great deal and keeps his own counsel. I do not visit often at your uncle's, now, for reasons that you may possibly surmise."
Just a moment of silence, during which both watched the play of the firelight.
Then Freeman Vance bent toward the other easy chair, which was lower than his.
"I have something to show you, Elsie, and something to tell you. Will you let me see if this fits?"
Then the firelight flashed about a cluster of small, pure diamonds, quaintly set.
"It was my mother's ring, Elsie, and there is something to tell you about it—something strange, which will make you feel more than ever that God plans all our ways for us.
"When my mother gave it to me, a boy of twenty, she said: 'It is for your wife, Freeman, with a mother's blessing. And, my son, promise me this: the girl on whose finger you place it must have clean hands and a pure heart. Will you be careful of that, my boy?' I promised it on my knees, by my mother's dying bed.
"You may judge now something of the thrill it gave me to hear you quote those words.
"I have carried the ring on my watch-guard, hidden from sight, for five years.
"Now it has found its rightful owner, and, my darling, I know I have obeyed my mother's words."
[CHAPTER I.]
THE Sabbath-school library of the Penn Avenue Church was really in a disgraceful condition. For years it had been let alone, until it had finally put itself into that state of dilapidation which let alone things can so skillfully assume. Covers were sadly torn, corners curled, fly-leaves gone, in many cases the first dozen or twenty pages of the book missing, to say nothing of great gaps in the middle of the story or history. Some books had almost every leaf defaced by those irritating scribblers, who are never safe creatures with a lead pencil in their hands. Many of the books were missing, having been swallowed in that mysterious vortex which ingulfs lost things, no person living being able to give a lucid account of their departure. And, to crown all, according to the statement of Mrs. Marshall Powers, who knew most things, "Not more than half the books were fit for a Sabbath-school library in the first place."
Who needs a photograph of a disabled library? Alas, the ghastly remains lie around so profusely that there is no need for more than a word to recall the very bend of their limp covers—those of them which have covers left. Such was, and had been, the condition of the Penn Avenue library for many a month. It had been long since a book had been spoken of by the bright girls and boys who belonged to its Sabbath-school without a contemptuous curling of upper lips. Spasms of interest had been from time to time awakened, and much talk had been wasted in repeating the patent fact—"We certainly ought to do something about our library," the main difficulty being that the effort went no farther than talk; and the day came when a suggestion of this sort would set the aforesaid lips to curling in derisive incredulity. They believed—those boys and girls—that the Penn Avenue library was dead.
Such, however, was not the case. One summer morning it revived. The young ladies' society took hold of it with interest; they would have a fair and festival forthwith; they would spare no pains and no expense to make the matter a grand success, and secure the means for a new and complete library, which should at once be the admiration and the envy of every other church in town.
Do you need to be told how that society hummed and buzzed after that? Meetings were held each week, sometimes twice a week. Committees were formed, and dashed hither and thither through the crowded streets. Worsted, and canvas, and embroidery silk, and ribbon, and beads, and lace came to the front, and became matters of even more importance than usual. The air was full of them, parlors were full of them, tongues were full of them; go where you would, you were destined to hear about "a lovely rose-colored tidy in a new stitch," or "an elegant afghan," the materials for which were to cost twenty dollars, or a "magnificent Bible cushion" that was all a mass of raised silk embroidery that would take "days and days of close work to finish"; or of some other of the endless pieces of fancy work getting ready for the fair. Neither was the festival part neglected. The city was districted, the streets were canvassed, miles of energetic walking were accomplished, and the result was cake—black cake, white cake, brown cake, chocolate, delicate, cream, cocoanut, sponge, and, to crown all, the "loveliest great mound of angels' food that was ever made in this town!" So one enthusiastic miss reported. Think of a company of rational beings, meeting and eating up a loaf or two of angels' food, for the purpose of securing a Sabbath-school library! Cakes were not all! Jellies, pickles, chickens, ham, tongue—oh! What not? If you had looked into the receiving room of the Penn Avenue Church, on the afternoon of the eventful evening, you would have almost supposed that the dear people were making ready to give a Christmas dinner to this great, cold, homeless outside world, so bountiful were the provisions. But they were not; they were only preparing to eat their way into a Sunday-school library for the use of their own boys and girls.
But let no novice suppose for a moment that the afternoon of this day had been reached in peace. If I should undertake to give you a history of one third of the troubles through which the self-sacrificing leaders walked, my story would be far too long. Did not Helen Brooks say that Sallie Stuart's pincushion was a "dowdy-looking thing," and should not be on her table; that Sallie did not know how to do fancy work anyway, and never ought to have tried? Did not Alice Jenkins say that Stella Somebody had marked her sofa pillow "ridiculously high;" that it was really a disgrace to a church to charge such exorbitant prices? And did not both Sallie and Stella hear of these things, by that mysterious process which is rife in all society, and which nobody understands, and did they not both withdraw in affront, declaring that they would have nothing more to do with the Penn Avenue fair, nor the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school? This is only a hint of the miasm of which the air was full.
But one story I must tell you: an "ower true tale" it is. If any of the Penn Avenue people read this, I ask their pardon for making it public, but it should be recorded as a matter of history. It was all about a doll. A great, beautiful waxen doll, direct from Paris, having wonderful real hair, and wonderful eyes that looked as though they must be real, and rosy parted lips, and teeth that gleamed like pearls. This doll was a special grant of grace to the young ladies' society. Mrs. Archer, just returned from a European tour, had brought it home for the very purpose to which she now dedicated it, namely, the library of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school. Think of the number of children in that Sabbath-school whose very arms would quiver with the desire to clasp such a treasure as their own! Assuredly there were fifty fathers in the congregation who would think nothing of investing a dollar for the possibility of securing it for the darling at home. Nothing easier than to sell fifty tickets, at a dollar each, and let the child whose fortunate number corresponded with the number on the inside of the Parisian lady's Parisian slipper carry off the prize in triumph, while the forty-nine other children held their breaths and controlled their sobs as best they could.
Now all this proved to be very correct reasoning. Hot buckwheat cakes on a frosty morning never disappeared faster than those fifty tickets were exchanged for shining silver spheres or crisp national currency. With great satisfaction did the committee count out its fifty dollars for the treasury of the Lord, mourning over but one thing: "We might have had seventy-five or a hundred tickets just as well as fifty."
Still, it was not all smooth sailing. Murmurs long and deep began to be heard, and presently they waxed loud enough to claim attention. There were those among some of the fathers and mothers in Israel who succeeded in making it understood that they had conscientious scruples against gambling, even for religious purposes. They declared that this thing ought not to be, and therefore must not be. Triumphant were the answers: "The tickets are all sold; what are you going to do about it?" But the conscientious element was in earnest. Something ought to, and therefore something could, be done about it; the money could be refunded, the tickets destroyed, the Parisian lady valued at a reasonable price and set up for sale, if they would, but never raffled for. Great was the consternation—loud were the voices. Give back the fifty dollars! Guess they would, hard as they had worked for it! Great need in being so squeamish! They had heard of people who strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel. They believed, if the truth could be told, the trouble started with somebody who was disappointed because his little girl did not get a ticket. They were not going to give up the doll, not they. Did people suppose they would do all the work, and then be dictated to by a few narrow-minded men and women? The strife ran high; it threatened to rend in pieces the young ladies' society. There were those who would do nothing if the Parisian lady was insulted; there were those who would do nothing if the raffle was permitted. Into the midst of the turmoil came the Sabbath to make what lull it could. The offending lady was carried home on Saturday by one of her allies, and securely locked in the "spare chamber" to spend the Sabbath in repose. Alas, and alas! The day was warm, the windows of the spare room fronted the south; the blinds had been thrown wide-open, the evening before, to catch the last rays of light for a special object, and by some strange mismanagement had not been closed again. The blue-eyed lady in her arm-chair directly in front of the window, looked her loveliest all day; and all day the sunbeams hovered around her, and wooed her, and kissed her, and caressed her, never realizing the fierce heat of their love; and on Monday morning, when the determined committee went to remove my lady to her throne in the church parlor, behold, her delicate complexion was seamed and soiled; what had been red cheeks were simply long faded streaks, extending in irregular lines to her neck; her eyelashes were gone, her nose was gone, her lovely lips were washed out, and she was, in short, a ruined wreck of her former self! There was no raffling at that fair. The money was returned, the doll was patched up, and packed up, and sent to a little niece of one of the committee—the disappointed auntie having bought my lady for a trifle—mid apparent calm succeeded the angry threatenings. Yet, despite all their efforts at composure, the young ladies could not get away from the miserable feeling that the trouble was in some way due to the opposition; and cold looks, and sarcastic speeches, and discomfort and distrust had it very much their own way among certain of the workers.
Well, the fair was held. Tidies, and tidies, and tidies! The number and variety seemed endless.
"Tidies to right of us, tithes to left of us, tidies before us, tidies behind us, tumbled and tangled," paraphrased a young man who caught his sleeve button in one of the meshes and drew a small avalanche of them to the floor. Another, looking on hopelessly at the mass, asked what sort of carpets they would make. And another, turning from them to the pincushions, wanted to know if some of those things were not large enough for bolsters. All this aside, of course. Sales were brisk, apparently, and yet many articles were unsold. The trifles, the small keepsakes, the pretty nothings found ready purchasers; but the pieces that represented miles of silk embroidery, and hours of toil, and were to bring large returns, were still the property of the young ladies when the evening was over. It was over at last, and weary bodies and excited brains sat down to count the spoils. There was a bill to pay at the fancy store for materials; there was a bill to pay at the confectioner's; there was a bill to pay for dishes rented, and broken, and otherwise injured; there was a bill to pay for cream—where do all the little bills come from which swarm round a distracted treasurer at such a time? Unexpected expenses, and enough fancy work on hand to stock a modest store! The bills were paid, and the wearied soldiers went into camp for repairs—mental and moral; and there was deposited with the treasurer of the library fund the sum of twenty-two dollars and sixteen cents!
After that there was a lull in the Penn Avenue Church.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE next spasm that seized them started in the choir. They would give an entertainment, musical and literary. No such gross and material things as food for the body should intrude. Committee meetings were again the order of the day. It was soon found that even in preparing for "a feast of reason and a flow of soul," differences of opinion would arise. Should it be the cantata of Queen Esther, or the operetta of the Milkmaid, or something lighter than either, say, the Dance of the Fairies? There were those who thought a series of tableaux would be better than any of these, and there were those who thought there was talent enough in the Penn Avenue Church to get up a genuine play, instead of one of these milk-and-water affairs. At last, after some plain speaking, and a few heart-burnings, it was decided that the cantata of Esther should have the right of way, the casting vote in its favor being made because there was a young man visiting at the Judsons' who had just graduated from the theological seminary, and would make a "magnificent Haman." Then began rehearsals. Music was to be interspersed between the various scenes, and certain sopranos were asked to prepare choice selections, such as: "I think only of thee, love," and "My heart's dearest treasure," and "Ever thine own, love," and a few other of those gems which we hear screamed out by seraphic voices to large and appreciative audiences. I have never heard it explained why so much of our popular music should be wedded to words which the performer would blush to repeat in prose to an audience of more than one; but the fact, I suppose, is indisputable.
Oh, those rehearsals! Why are they attended with so many trials? Does Satan make special arrangements to be present at all efforts of this kind? And, if so, why? Does his superior genius recognize in these gatherings fruitful soil for the developments dear to his heart, I wonder?
Miss Minnie Coleman was general-in-chief of this particular entertainment, and she dropped a limp heap among the cushions one evening and recounted her trials to sympathetic ears: "Such a time, mamma! You never saw anything like it. It really is enough to discourage one with any attempt at doing good! Who do you suppose wants to be Vashti? That ridiculous little Kate Burns! She says she knows more than half of the part already, because she helped them get this up in the Vesey Street social; the idea! Everything she did was to prompt at one of the rehearsals! She is too dumpy for a queen; and she has a simpering little voice. Oh! It would be just too ridiculous for anything, and yet she is bent on it; she has talked with each one of the committee separately, and hinted that we ought to propose her. Then there's that Jennie Harmon, vexed because she hasn't been chosen for Esther. She makes all manner of fun of Essie (whom everybody says is just the one for the part), and I'm really afraid Essie will hear of it, and refuse to act; the girls are so hateful, mamma, you haven't an idea! They get so excited about things that don't go just as they want them; they burst right out with whatever is in their minds. Three of the committee went home crying to-night just because of things that they had overheard said; and I'd cry, too, if I were not so provoked. It does seem too bad when we are working for benevolence, and trying our best to make a little money, to have people go and spoil things in this way. (Jessie Morrison is fretting, too; she doesn't like her part; says her mother thinks the dress is unbecoming. 'What of it?' I asked her, somebody had to wear it, and it might as well be she as any one; well, she said her mother did not think it was exactly a proper dress to appear in, in public. So absurd!) I am just tired of the whole thing. I told Fannie to-night I would give anything if we were safely out of it all, and if I once get through I shall wash my hands of all benevolent enterprises in the future. Fannie was a poor one to talk to, though; she is so vexed because she hasn't been asked to sing a solo that she could tear everything to pieces. I'm sure I hope those library books, if we ever get them, will do a great deal of good; they ought to, such a world of trouble as they have made."
Ah, well, they lived through it. It is surprising how many trials we do succeed in pushing through and coming out alive on the other side!
The cantata argued and frowned and sparred and grumbled its way into perfection. The large hall was engaged for two evenings, because a complete rehearsal at the hall was a necessity. The town was duly placarded, inviting the public to the unique entertainment gotten up by the energetic young people of the Penn Avenue Church. The usual number of street jokes floated through the air, about the "Penn Avenue Theatre," or the "religious opera," sent afloat by that large class of irreligious young men who inhabit every town and city, and who seem to know by instinct just what is appropriate to a religious body, and just what is not. When the church and the world start out to walk hand in hand, it is a curious thing that it is always the world that sees the inconsistencies, and laughs, and always the church that is blind.
The modern Queen Esther did hear of the trouble, and, unlike her great namesake, faltered and pouted and would have nothing to do with the affair, so at a late hour a new queen had to be hastily chosen, who marred the occasion by forgetting some of her parts; and this is only a hint of the sea of trials which encompassed the executive committee that evening. Still, as I said, they lived, and came to the hour when they sat down to count their gains. From this exercise they rose up sadder and wiser girls. The costumes had been so unique, and so rich, and were of such brilliant colors that, being available for the occasion only, many things had to be bought, and the bills sent to the treasurer. The purchases did not seem many nor heavy, as they were bought by different people, at different times, but they counted up so mercilessly when the figures were set in those inexorable rows! Then the charge for the hall was simply enormous. The poor committee looked at each other and said this a dozen times during the counting up; the idea of charging as much for the use of the hall for the rehearsal as they did for the regular evening! Who would have imagined such a thing! Then the bills of the piano lenders were more than they had supposed possible, and the printer's bill was another ruinous item. Will it not be easily credited by the great army of the initiated that nineteen dollars and two cents gave the sum of the net proceeds of all these weeks of outlay! Actually nineteen dollars and two cents! "There!" said the treasurer, tossing down her pencil with a determined air, "I shall not add that column again! I've begun at the top, and in the middle, and added the fives and the nines separately, and done everything I can think of, and it comes every time to that miserable little nineteen dollars and two cents! Let's take the nineteen dollars to pay for the shoe leather we've worn-out, and hand in the two cents to the library committee, and then go and drown ourselves."
They laughed, as girls will, at almost anything, if somebody will only lead off. But when they reached home they, every one of them, cried. Poor things! My heart aches for them. There is no class of workers more utterly to be pitied than those who struggle and toil, making bricks often times without straw, and who find at the close that, some way, the bricks seem not to have been worth the cost.
It was months afterward, winter indeed, before the library association gasped again. Then up rose the women, the respectable, middle-aged, matronly women. The library must be replenished, money must be raised. It would not do to set girls at it; girls always got into trouble, they were so sensitive, so quick to take offence, so lacking in self-control. They—the matrons—would do this thing speedily and quietly. They would have an oyster supper on a large scale, make preparation for a great many guests, furnish oysters in every possible style, and with them such coffee as only they could make, to say nothing of the inevitable cake and cream, and side dishes, for those who did not relish oysters. So they went to work, quietly, skillfully, expeditiously. Baking, broiling, frying, stewing! What tales could not the kitchens and pantries have told during those days! They got through to the weary end, not without heart-burnings and a few tears, and much pressure of lips lest they speak unadvisedly, and occasional home confidences not flattering to their fellow workers, and I protest that in this age of the world, with Satan so manifestly at the helm as he is, it is not possible to get up a church fair, festival, opera, or what not, without these, but the matrons were as they had promised to be, on the whole, discreet, forbearing, and silent; no open breaches came.
The evening of the supper came. Dark!—was it ever darker? Rain!—not a fitful dash with gleams of moonlight between. Just a steady, pelting, pitiless rain, mud at every crossing, pools of water at some. Warm—so warm that, to the average oyster eater, the very thought of one of those bivalves was disgusting. A few damp yet resolute people stood around in the corners of the great room, and steadily ate large dishes of oysters, double dishes, some of them, and the minister, the one who perhaps could afford it least, ushered in from the dark outer world, in the course of the evening, seven wet, hungry newsboys, and gave them such a supper as they will tell of twenty years hence, and paid the bills! Meantime the cooked oysters in huge quantities were sent out to the deserving poor, and the uncooked ones were forgotten and left in the warm room all night, and by morning were not fit for the deserving poor, or any other poor! In the early forenoon of the next day, while the rain was thus falling drearily, a few draggled and discouraged females wended their way homeward, laden with soup tureens, cooking utensils, and a loaf each of cake! And this was the outcome of Penn Avenue's third effort!
Now you are not to suppose that this church was poor. It was not wealthy in the sense that some city churches are, which need only to mention a want to have it supplied from a full treasury; but its members, the great majority of them, lived in comfortable, and some of them in elegant homes; none of them ever arranged for himself to have a supper brought in by his friends, and eaten by his friends, and paid for by his friends, in order to help him through with the current expenses of the year. Not one of them had ever been known to solicit articles for a fancy fair in order to help pair house rent, or even pew rent. All of them were in the habit of putting their hands in their pockets and furnishing the money with which to meet all these reasonable needs. Why, then, did they resort to such pitiable devices to replenish their church library? Is there any person who can give a satisfactory answer to that question?
I want also to be understood about those young ladies. They were by no means working for self-gratification; they were honest in their desire to raise money for the cause; neither were they of a more quarrelsome disposition than others of their age and position. The simple fact was, that the unusual surroundings, the endless rehearsals, the posing in characters strange to them, the curious costumes which made them feel unlike themselves, the need for haste, and undue exertion, the necessity for planning for so many contingencies, the sense of responsibility, the consciousness of criticism freely offered, the possibility of failure, all these strained heavily on young nerves unused to great strains, and produced the highly wrought condition of nervous irritability which made molehills loom up like mountains, and made the things that would on ordinary occasions have raised a merry laugh start the quick tears instead. I take the bold ground that misunderstandings, and heart-burnings, and coldnesses, sometimes far-reaching in their influences and results, are almost necessary accompaniments to work of this character; there are notable exceptions, but exceptions emphasize rules. Really now, how many church festivals, fairs, concerts, cantatas, Christmas dramas, and what not, have you watched closely from their inception to their close, without hearing of a jar which did more or less harm?
What does this prove? I am not proposing to prove anything by it, I am only stating certain facts. Also, I am advocating the cause of the Penn Avenue Church; it was like unto other churches.
[CHAPTER III.]
IF you please, now, go back with me to the early summer in which the first spasm of interest in regard to the library took hold of the young people. The new superintendent, unwittingly, perhaps, set the ball to rolling, by remarking that the library had been closed and locked by vote of the executive committee of the school, until such time as there were found to be any books worth giving out. Then, among those who had looked at each other and shaken their heads in disapproval of such a state of things, were the young ladies in Mrs. Jones's class,—ten of them. They occupied the corner down by the door, between the door and the east window; a corner that was cold in winter and warm in summer; a corner that other classes shunned. Perhaps that will give you a hint in regard to Mrs. Jones's class. They were young ladies belonging to a certain clique. None of them wealthy, none of them even well-to-do, in the sense which you probably mean by that term. They represented comfortable homes, where the fathers worked hard, daily, for daily needs, where the mothers took their share of daily burdens, where the daughters did what they could to help lighten the burdens of both.
For instance, one was a sewing girl, and went every day among the fine houses on the fashionable streets to do plain sewing. Another was a milliner's apprentice, and in the busy season worked over bonnets from seven o'clock of a Monday morning often until twelve o'clock of a Saturday night. The fact was, she knew some of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school teachers who had their bonnets sent home in the gray dawn of the Sabbath morning, because they must have them for that day's worship. Another managed the entire culinary and kitchen department for a large family, in order that the mother might sit all day, and sew (on the many garments which were brought to her, to cut and fit, and repair and make). Still another was clerk in a fancy store, and knew much about the pretty things that less busy girls than she were fond of making. Two were teachers in the graded school and spent their Saturdays in helping with the family ironing, to relieve an over-burdened mother. Workers they were, every one; not a drone in the hive. By common consent they were almost entirely counted out of the "fancy department," as they had named the young ladies' society. They had not time for fancy work, neither did they move in the same circle with the fancy workers. Oh, they attended the same church, and were on friendly enough terms with the young people, at least with those whom they knew sufficiently to exchange bows when they met on the street; they met nowhere else save in church. I am sure you know all about those subtle, oftentimes mysterious, yet plainly defined, society distinctions. They are to be found in every village, however small, as well as in our largest cities.
This corner class looked at each other and shook their heads with the rest, but they did one thing more. Sarah Potter said, "Girls, let us do something. Mrs. Jones, let us have a Sabbath-school library."
"Well," said Mrs. Jones, briskly, heartily, "I'm agreed. Let us, by all means." Then they laughed a little. Mrs. Jones was a tailoress, and worked hard all day, and every day, and was devoted to her ten young ladies.
But Sarah Potter had more to say: "Oh, now I mean it. It is high time something was done. Let us meet to-morrow evening at Jennie's and talk it over."
Now Jennie was one of the ten, and all meetings to discuss ways and means were always held at her house. In fact it was the settled place of meeting for anything connected with this class. It had been two years since Jennie had met with them elsewhere than in her own room. Yet the class was always counted as numbering ten. One glance at her pale, bright face would have told you the story. She never left her room, nor her bed, and looked forward now to but one way of leaving that spot, which would be when they carried her out into the world once more, in her coffin! Yet Jennie was the strong bond of union in that class. "She is the class soul!" affirmed Mrs. Jones in her strong and somewhat quaint language, and the one to whom she spoke understood, and did not controvert it.
Workers are very apt to move promptly in whatever line they take up. The next evening the ten met in Jennie's room. She was eager to receive them, ready to further their plans to the best of her powers. But had they any plans? "Sarah began it," they said, "she must tell us what she wants."
"I want a new library; and I say, let's get one, somehow."
"Very well, I'll be secretary and put that down. So much decided. 'A library somehow.'" Hannah Wood wrote the sentence in large letters, the others gleeful meanwhile. "Now, Sarah, proceed. We are all ready for the plans."
"I haven't any plans; only that the thing must be done. It has been talked long enough. Yes, I have plans. Look at the Woman's Board; see how much money they are raising with ten cents a month. Why couldn't we draw up pledges for ten cents a month and get signers? There are ten of us to work; ten cents a month from everybody that we can wheedle into giving it. A regular decimal performance."
"Circulating decimals at that," laughed her sister. "Think how we shall have to circulate through this town to get signers!"
"Jennie, you must be our treasurer; we'll report to you once a month. Mrs. Jones, won't that be nice?"
The subject was fairly opened for discussion, and vigorously was it discussed. Before the evening closed, each of the ten had a copy of the pledge written in a fair round hand. "We, the undersigned, do pledge ourselves to give ten cents each month at the call of a person holding this paper, for the benefit of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school Library Fund, until such time as we shall ourselves erase our name from this paper."
"And it will be one while before you get a chance to do that," affirmed Sarah Potter, reading the pledge with grave satisfaction. "If ever our church gets into another muddle over a library, I shall be disappointed."
This was the beginning. The girls pocketed their papers, kissed Jennie, and went home. Thereafter, steady, silent work was done with these pledges. The thing created scarcely a ripple on the surface of the church society. The sum asked for was so small; it was so easy to change your mind and erase your name at any time; it was so improbable that those girls would call for so small a sum many months in succession; it was so much easier to comply than to refuse; people laughed and said one to another: "Do you know what those girls in Mrs. Jones's class are trying to do? Poor things, they want books badly. I hope they won't be old and gray before a new library is bought, but I am afraid they will at that rate. Oh, yes, I put down my name! It is a whim that will blow over very soon, and it is just a trifle anyway." Very few members of the fancy department even heard of the plan; they were busy making pincushions for the fair, and did not often meet the other class. But the original scheme widened. The ten met one evening at Jennie's call in her room; she had a plan.
"I've been thinking all the week, girls, and praying over it. Don't you believe we could each give an evening a week to the library?"
"Oh, dear, yes, two of them if there was money in it! I'm becoming interested and mercenary." This from Sarah Potter.
"Well, why don't you each go into business?"
"Why don't we what!" unbounded amazement in tone and manner.
"Go into business," repeated Jennie. Then she laughed. "I've been thinking, and I find there is some one thing that each of you can do, and do well; why not get up an evening class, one evening a week, and give the result to the library fund?"
"Bless your dear heart! What an idea! There isn't a thing in life that I know how to do!"
"Yes, there is. Don't you know, Trudie, that you make better cake for the festivals than any of the fancy cooks? People always say so, and I know two girls this minute who would be delighted to learn. I believe you could have a large class."
"To learn to make cake! What an idea!"
"It is a good one, isn't it, girls? I'll tell you, Trudie; I was praying about our library this very morning, and I asked the Heavenly Father to give me an idea; and just then the Emmons girls came in; they expect company, and they were dreading all the work there would be to look after; Sadie said if it were not for cake she wouldn't mind, but she never had success, and it gave her the blues to think of having to attend to it. Just then it flashed over me this whole plan, and I knew it was an answer to my prayer."
"Oh, Jennie, Jennie! Cake making and praying are too far apart to get mixed in that way. Do you really think God attends to such things?"
Then it was time for Mrs. Jones. "Why, dear, me!" she said. "Don't you know your Bible? 'Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.' If he is to be glorified by our work, it is likely he knows a good deal about it."
"You can't glorify God by making cake!"
"Can't? Then I should like to know what business you have spending your time making it. There's the direction."
"If you can turn cake into library books, Trudie, I should say the way was plain." This from Mary Brooks. Then Nettie Brooks: "Come, Trudie, take your cake and move out of the way. This is a splendid notion, but what in the world can I do? I know how to sell fancy goods, and sort colors, and bear all manner of impudence from ladies who tumble them over, but I have no colors to sell."
"O Nettie, I thought of you! Look at your lovely handwriting. Think of that winter when you took lessons to help the writing teacher pay her board, and said you did not know what in the world you learned for. It may be that God had you do it for just this time; and, don't you think, I know three scholars for you. I've had ever so many calls to-day."
"Put her down," said Hannah gravely. "She'll get scholars; Jennie has prayed it all out for her. I know what I can do; I can teach decimal fractions; I've been at it all day, and I think I could teach them to a post. But the question is, where is the post?"
"Mr. Nelson is willing to send his chore boy to an evening class, if one is started; and Mrs. Silverton is willing to send both the Brewster boys."
"I shall teach an evening school; and teach decimal fractions, and circulating decimals at that. Every scholar shall circulate around a new Sabbath-school library before another year. I begin to see floods of daylight."
Do you think this scheme came to naught? Not in a single instance. During the long winter evenings, the cake classes, and the soup classes, and the writing classes, and the dress-cutting classes and the arithmetic classes, were busy and enthusiastic.
"I suppose Jennie prayed them all there," said Sarah Potter, thoughtfully, when after a night of heavy rain they met to compare notes, and found that all could report progress. It grew to be their working motto, "Jennie prayed us through." They worked carefully; if Jennie was praying, the work must match the prayer.
"Girls," she said to them one night, "I've been thinking. Hannah, you dear child, Bud says he begins to understand how to divide; he thought he would never know. He said the carrying business bothered him always, until last night you made it as plain as day. Can't you teach him how to carry himself over bodily into the service of the Lord?"
Said Hannah, with amused voice, but tearful eyes, "O you blessed little fraction! I'll try! I truly will."
"We must all try hard," Jennie said. "It is God's chance for us each. It grows on me. The library will come; I feel sure of that, but so much else will come if we teach for His glory. O girls, it is blessed to work for Him! I cannot do it, and over again, but I am glad to say over and over again, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' I can only lie and wait, but I pray for the workers."
"Ah," said Hannah, "foolish child! She doesn't see that she is the hub, and we nothing but the spokes in the wheel!"
They went home strengthened. There was more to do than merely to secure a Sabbath-school library; and there was more done.
It was about this time that the fancy department counted over its nineteen dollars and two cents, and wept!
Well, the winter hasted away; spring came and passed, and the workers worked steadily, quietly on. Almost anything that takes a year to do is done quietly. The mere surface talkers always get through talking, early in the year, and conclude that because they are tired of the subject it has, therefore, dropped. Very few people even took time to notice the regularity with which their pledge was presented to them and their ten cents claimed. Those who noticed it said, with a patronizing, and somewhat pitying, smile: "So you are not tired of that little effort of yours yet, eh? It reminds me of the old fable of the bird trying to carry away the sand on the seashore. Well, every little helps, and I am sure every effort is commendable. Our library is certainly a disgrace." This class, having encouraged (?) the workers, calmly shouldered the "disgrace," and went on their way thinking no more about it. And the ten-cent pieces accumulated. New names were constantly added. Most of Nettie Brooks's customers in the fancy store signed to please her, she was so accommodating they all liked her.
The high school girls signed because Miss Wood was interested in it, and all the scholars liked Miss Wood. And a whole army of people signed because poor Jennie, lying always on her white bed, was pleased to have them, and it was "very little to do for one so afflicted."
This same Jennie, as the days went by, and the little iron bank in which she kept her money grew full, and must needs be emptied again, had another plan, which involved taking the minister into confidence. So one day, a little before the spring opened, he came and sat by Jennie's couch, and they talked long together. And at the next meeting of the "Decimals," which by tacit consent had come to be considered their pet name, he was present; and there was more talking, and the minister's wife and the minister's mother were received into confidence. Not long thereafter came an express package to the minister's door—books; but nobody thought anything of that, ministers were always buying books. There was a certain upper room in the parsonage, clean and sunny, and destitute of furniture, save shelves and chairs. The shelves had been crowded with newspapers, but one day they gathered themselves into systematic bundles and took their silent way to the attic; they had been superseded. The shelves were dusted and treated to a row of new books in tasteful bindings. Thereafter the "Decimals" spent many leisure moments in the upper room of the parsonage, admiring books. People wondered, occasionally, why "those girls in Mrs. Jones's class were running to the parsonage so much." Mrs. Marshall Powers explained the mystery by saying she supposed the pastor and his wife were trying to get an influence over girls of that class. The pastor heard it and laughed, and said to his wife that the fact was girls of that class were getting a great influence over him; he wished they were multiplied in every church in a tenfold ratio.
And the days passed, and more express packages came; and on one or two occasions certain packages went back again, for the committee on selection was very choice, and very cautious.
[CHAPTER IV.]
THERE came a day toward the close of summer when the Penn Avenue Church called a congregational meeting.
The object thereof was to discuss—not a Sabbath-school library, their hopes in that direction had sunk below zero. Neither the fancy department nor the choir would venture a pincushion or a song. Not a matron could be coaxed to offer suggestion. Nobody dare say "cake" or "oysters" aloud. The subject under discussion was a new carpet for the church parlor. One was sadly needed; indeed, no more church socials could be held until the parlor was re-furnished, because no matron could be found who would preside as hostess.
It was voted to secure means for a carpet forthwith. Then did the chairman of the library committee delight the hearts of the carpet committee by announcing that they had unanimously voted to place the funds raised toward a new library in the hands of the carpet committee to use at their discretion, inasmuch as there was no present prospect of a library, and the amount raised would be such a trifle compared with what would have been needed for that purpose.
Then arose a cloud that presaged a storm. The funds were raised for the purpose of securing a library. What right had this committee to vote them away? Could they not be placed in the bank until such time as the needed amount was secured, and then used for their legitimate purpose? Tongues were numerous now, and waxed eloquent; differences of opinion were marked, and were urged with energy. The cloud, at first, no bigger than a man's hand, bade fair to spread over all the congregation, and involve them in a party squall.