The Pansy, December 1887

The Pansy

EDITED
BY
"PANSY"
MRS. G. R. ALDEN

Transcriber's Note: Many of the advertising images are linked to larger copies to enable the reading of the fine print and details.

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Volume 15, Number 5. Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Company December 3, 1887.

THE PANSY.

CHARLIE IS DISCOURAGED.

A DARK EVENING.

HE was just discouraged, and that was the whole of it. He sat close to the stove, leaned his ragged elbow on his knee, and his cheek on a rather sooty hand, and gave himself up to troubled thought, the two books which had slipped from him, lying unheeded on the floor.

Let them lie there; what was the use in trying to study? Here was the third evening this week that he had been held, after hours, when he wanted to go to the night school and find out how to do that example! He might just as well give up first as last.

There was a loud stamping outside, and the door of the little flag station burst open, letting in a rush of spiteful winter air.

“Halloo!” said a boy of about fourteen, muffled to his eyes in fur.

“Halloo yourself,” said the boy by the stove, without changing his position more than was necessary to glance up.

“Has the six o’clock freight gone down yet?”

“Not as I know of; I wish she would be about it; I’ve been waiting on her now an hour after time.”

“Lucky for me she is behind, though; I guess I can catch a ride into town on her, can’t I? I’ve been out to Windmere, and missed the five o’clock mail; I set out to foot it, but it is rather rough walking against this wind; especially when you have to walk on ice. I’d rather be toted in on the freight, than to try it. Do you suppose they will give me a lift?”

“You can sit down and wait, and try for it, if you like,” and the boy glanced toward a three-legged stool.

“I’d give you this chair only it hasn’t any bottom,” he said, with a dreary attempt at a smile.

“The stool is all right. Do you have to wait every night for the freight?”

“No; not much oftener than every other night; it isn’t my business to wait at all, but as often as three times a week the fellow in charge wants me to do that, or something else, after I’m off duty.”

“So you fill up the time with reading; that’s a good idea. What have you here?”

The visitor stooped and picked up the fallen books.

“Arithmetic and History! You are studying, eh? Well, now, I call that industrious. Where do you go to school?”

“Nowhere. I pretend to go to the evening class at the Twenty-third Street Station, and sometimes I get there twice in the week, and sometimes only once. It’s a discouraging kind of studying. I’ve been after one example for two weeks and can’t get it.”

“Whereabouts are you? Ho! that old fellow; I remember him. I can show you about it, there’s just a mean little catch to it; but you’ve done well to get so far along.”

Then the two heads bent over the book, and over the row of figures on the margin of a freight bill; and presently the face of the discouraged boy lighted with a smile; he saw through the “catch.” Then there was a little talk between the two.

Ralph Westwood learned that the boy was an orphan; was working at the freight depot beyond his strength and on very small pay, because times were hard, and boys plenty; that he had a little sister in the Orphans’ Home, and the ambition of his life was to learn, and become a scholar, and earn money to support the little sister. He went to school regularly while mother lived, and worked between times to help support himself; and mother wanted him to be a scholar, and thought it was in him, but she had been dead for two years, and things were growing worse with him, and sometimes he was discouraged.

Then the freight came, and Ralph Westwood caught his ride into town, and had only time to say:—

“Don’t give it up, Charlie; who knows what may happen? Christmas is coming.”

“Christmas!” said Charlie to himself with a bitter smile; what could that bring to him but more work, because of an extra train, and late hours and scanty fare, and not even time to run up to the “Home” and see little Nell? Didn’t he remember how it was last Christmas?

As for Ralph Westwood he waited only to brush the snow from his clothes, and wash away the stains of soot from his hands, which must have been left when he shook hands with Charlie, then he sought a handsome library where a gentleman sat reading. Here he did not even wait to reply to the cordial “Good evening!” which greeted him, save as his polite bow was a reply, then he dashed into business. “Uncle Ralph! I have found your boy for you.”

“Indeed! that is quick work! Where did you find him?”

“I blundered on him; the very one. I didn’t know why I should have missed the five o’clock train, and he didn’t know why he should have to do overwork to-night. I hope we shall both have a glorious reason why it worked out before our eyes.”

Then he drew a low chair in front of the lovely grate fire, and told his story.

That was three weeks before Christmas. A great deal can be done in three weeks. Ralph Westwood and his Uncle Ralph did a great deal, and, at the end of the time, knew almost more about Charlie Watson than he knew of himself.

The end of it all, or, more properly speaking, the beginning of it all, came to Charlie on Christmas eve: an invitation to Dr. Westwood’s elegant home, to meet seven boys, all of whom were in the Sabbath-school class which Charlie had just joined.

I wish I had time to tell you about the dinner-table to which they all sat down. Roast turkey, of course, and cranberry sauce, and chicken-pie, and jellies and tarts, and all the elegancies of an elegant dinner, the like of which none of them had ever seen before. At each plate was a bouquet of roses. Think of roses at Christmas, for eight hard-working, homeless boys!

Some people might think they didn’t like those roses with all their hearts; but some people don’t understand some boys. Slipped into each bouquet was a slip of paper which said on it “Merry Christmas!” in beautiful writing, and then followed wonderful things. One paper was a receipt for a year’s house rent, for one of the boys who lived with his mother, and had hard work to meet the landlord’s agent each month. Another had an order on a certain tailor for a full suit of clothes, such as it could be plainly seen he very much needed: every one had something. When Charlie Watson read his, he turned red and pale by turns, and stammered and trembled, and knew not what to say.

It was longer than the others, and it took him some time to understand it all; but at last he made out that he was to enter the Fort Street Grammar School as a pupil, on the Tuesday after New Year’s, and that his home was to be at Dr. Westwood’s office, which he was expected to keep in order, in return for his board and clothes.

What an amazing chance had come to him! Do you wonder that he trembled and stammered?

But, after all, I don’t know that he was any happier than Ralph Westwood, who hovered about him in great satisfaction, and in one of the pauses of his duties as assistant host, found a chance to murmur, “I say, Charlie, aren’t you rather glad the six o’clock freight was late, that night?”

Pansy.

A HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!

A HAPPY Christmas to you!

For the Light of Life is born,

And his coming is the sunshine

Of the dark and wintry morn.

The grandest Orient glow must pale,

The loveliest Western gleam must fail,

But his great Light,

So full, so bright,

Ariseth for thy heart to-day,

His shadow-conquering beams shall never pass away.

A happy Christmas to you!

For the Prince of peace is come,

And his reign is full of blessings,

Their very crown and sum.

No earthly calm can ever last.

’Tis but the lull before the blast:

But his great peace

Shall still increase

In mighty, all rejoicing sway;

His kingdom in thy heart can never pass away.

Frances Ridley Havergal.

ARCHIE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

TWENTY-ONE, two, three, four and five!

Just a quarter, sure’s I’m alive!

And that will buy the funniest doll,

Rubber and worsted, for Baby Moll.

That takes all of my ready cash,

And breaks my bank all into smash;

You little tin bank, you’re never full;

I can’t work much nights after school.

ARCHIE.

These days are so short the light don’t last,

And Christmas is coming so fast, so fast!

I won’t ask father to give me a cent;

He works too hard for bread and rent,

But mother must have a Christmas gift;

O dear! who’ll give a fellow a lift?

Dear mamma! her hair is pretty and brown,

And her smile so sweet, with never a frown.

I’ll get her something, I will! I will!

But how’ll I get it’s the question still.

I know!—I’ve got such a splendid plan;

’Tis good enough for a grown-up man.

I think my present will be just grand;

’Tis this: I’ll write, in my nicest hand,

A pledge that liquor I’ll never drink;

That I’ll never swear—and then I think

I’ll write that tobacco I’ll never use,

In tobacco pipes or tobacco chews.

I’ll get an envelope, clean and white,

And on it mamma’s name I’ll write.

And I’ll copy it out so nice and fair,

And sign my name at the bottom there:

“Archibald Spinner!” O what a name!

But Grandpa wears it, and ’tis no shame.

“Archibald!” Mamma will like it so.

“Archie!” she says when I’m good, I know,

But I think ’twill please her—I know it will!

Her dear brown eyes with tears will fill,

But behind the tears there will be for me

The happy twinkle I love to see.

So, “Archibald Spinner,” the road is long,

You must make your mind up good and strong

Before you put down in black and white,

The pledge that the angels in Heaven will write.

Yes, I’m going to do it! I’ve counted the cost:

There is all to gain, and nothing lost.

Now Christmas may come—come slow, or come fast—

I’m ready to meet it, ready at last;

Who in this town has a finer show

Than “Archibald II.,” I’d like to know!

Emily Baker Smalle.

“WE TWELVE GIRLS.”

By Pansy.

The seed is the word of God.

The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels.

So shall it be at the end of the world: the angels shall come forth, and sever the wicked from among the just.

Morrisville, December, 1887.

Dear Girls:

I took that first verse for mine: not because it was short, but because the talk we had in Sunday-school kept me thinking about it. We were planning the next Sunday’s lesson, and one of the girls said she didn’t see how Bible verses could be called seeds: that set Mrs. Wheeler off into an explanation; she told some lovely stories about how Bible words dropped into human hearts had borne flowers and fruit; then she suggested that we girls try it, and see what fruit we could raise for Christmas.

As you may imagine, I liked the plan ever so much, for it made me think of you all; and I decided to take just that verse and see how many seeds I could sow. I had a half-dozen plans which, if I had carried them out, would have been splendid fruit, I am sure; and would have made a lovely letter to write you, but they were all spoiled, and all I can do is to tell you about it.

Last Tuesday was a lovely winter day, just the one for beginning some of my beautiful plans, and I had been wishing I could get Aunt Helen to go down town with me to help me do some shopping. I thought of asking her, but she is a rather new auntie, you know, and I didn’t quite like to.

Just after dinner mamma asked me if I didn’t want to take a basket of tea rolls to Grandma Dunlap. She isn’t my grandma, but a very nice old lady whom everybody calls grandma; she is quite poor and people send her things very often. I like to go there; the little house is so cunning, and everything as neat as wax, and old-fashioned.

I asked mamma if I must hurry back, and she said, “Just as you please; if you want to take a walk in this crisp air, there is nothing to hinder you from being gone for a couple of hours.”

Then up spoke Aunt Helen, “But if you should happen to come back in time to go out shopping with me, I have some Christmas errands which I think you might like to help about.”

Just think how glad I was! I said, “O Aunt Helen! that is just exactly what I want; and could you find time to give me a little Christmas advice?”

She laughed and said she was good for any amount of advice.

I put on one of my very prettiest dresses and my best hat, so as to be ready to go with Aunt Helen; and then I started for Grandma Dunlap’s as fast as I could; I said it would not take me over a half-hour to go there and back.

O girls, I had such lovely schemes. I wish I had time to tell you about them, but of what use would it be to tell now that they are fallen through? I had a five dollar gold piece of my very own, and I was going to lay it out for Christmas in what I hoped would be seeds, bearing fruit for Jesus. And don’t you think I didn’t do it at all! I found Grandma Dunlap in bed; she had a hoarse cold and a headache, and so much rheumatism that she could not even turn over in bed.

“I managed to keep up until after breakfast,” she said, “and then I went right back to bed, and this stiffness came on me, so that I haven’t been able to stir since.”

The cunning little kitchen hadn’t been swept that day; and there wasn’t any fire on the hearth. Grandma said it happened that nobody had been in to see her. Now of course you know, girls, what came to me right away; that I ought to sweep the room and make a fire and get her a cup of tea and something to eat. But I am ashamed to tell you that I said to myself: “Well, I can’t do it; Aunt Helen will be waiting for me, and besides I have my best dress on, and mamma does not like me to do housework in this dress. And besides all that, if I don’t buy some of those things right away, it will be too late to carry out my plans.” I told Grandma Dunlap I was sorry she was sick, and I would tell mamma, and have something done for her, and then I took my sun umbrella and turned toward the door; when up came that verse which I was working by, “The seed is the word,” and along with it came the verse, “Even Christ pleased not himself.” And another, “If Christ, so loved us, we ought also to love one another.” And then, piling on top of that, came the Golden Rule about doing to others as you would have them do to you; and, O dear! I don’t know how many more there were; seeds, you know, which had been dropped in my heart, and were trying as hard as they could to spring up and bear fruit and I was trying to choke them. I stopped short, with my hand on the door latch and turned around, and the queer little tile over grandma’s chimney which has painted on it in funny old-fashioned letters, “Polly, put the kettle on,” seemed to speak to me as plainly as though my name had been Polly, instead of Emmeline.

EMMELINE IS CONVINCED.

Grandma’s grandson painted the letters there; he was going to be an artist if he had lived; but he didn’t: and she hasn’t any relations in the world. At last I said, “Wouldn’t you like a cup of tea, Grandma?” How I did hope she would say she couldn’t think of drinking a drop of tea, nor eating a mouthful, and that all she wanted was to be left alone. But she didn’t; she smiled on me and said: “I do feel pretty faint, Emmie, and if you could give me a bite of your mother’s tea roll I’ll try to eat it, but I haven’t any tea in the house.”

Well, of course there wasn’t any use in standing there and trying to make believe that because I had on my best dress I ought not to work; I knew well enough that mamma would rather have the dress spoiled than to have Grandma Dunlap suffer, so I just told her that I would go out to the corner grocery and get a little tea and come back and make her a cup right away. I didn’t know people ever bought less than a pound of tea at a time, so I got a whole pound, and it cost a whole dollar. Did you know, girls, that good tea was so expensive? I never was so astonished in my life. Then I found out that there wasn’t any butter nor sugar; and I knew mamma cooked a fresh egg for people when they couldn’t eat much; and I bought a dozen at the grocery that the man said had just come from the country, and they were forty-five cents a dozen; it must cost a great deal of money to keep house; I had no idea what an expensive thing it was. Just the few things which I had to get for Grandma Dunlap, cost two dollars and sixty-seven cents! Butter, it seems, is very expensive stuff, too. The grocer sent the things right away, and I hurried back, and turned up the skirt of my dress, and put on a great gingham apron of Grandma’s and made the fire, and filled the little tea-kettle, and while it was making up its mind to boil, I swept and dusted the room; then I made Grandma just a lovely piece of toast, for mamma had sent a loaf of bread, as well as the tea rolls, and cooked her an egg, and made her a beautiful cup of tea; then I fed her, and she said she believed she never had had anything so good in her life before. Then I had to wash up the dishes, and put everything in order, and fix Grandma’s bed, and bring in some wood, and go over to Mrs. Barker’s to ask if Jane, when she came from the factory, would mind coming over and spending the night, and by the time I had reached home, Aunt Helen had been, and got back; just as I knew she would be; and mamma said: “Why, child, what in the world kept you so? I was beginning to be frightened.” They laughed at me a little, when I told my story, for buying a whole pound of tea, and two pounds of butter; but mamma said I did right, of course, not to think about my dress when there was work which ought to be done: and she sent word to papa to have our doctor go around and see Grandma, and said as soon as she could leave Baby in the morning, she would go herself.

And, girls, that’s the whole of the story; I have none of the beautiful things to tell, because I spent more than half my money, and I can’t do them now; and besides, Aunt Helen doesn’t go away down town shopping very often.

So my plans are all upset, but some way I don’t feel so very badly about it; though I would have liked ever so much to try how those seeds I had in mind, would grow; maybe I can try some of them some other time.

There is just a little bit more: at first I thought I wouldn’t tell you, but I believe I will. Grandma Dunlap said a very strange and sweet thing to me just as I was going away. She asked me to bend down so she could kiss me, and then she said, “You have given the Lord Jesus a beautiful supper to-night, Emmie.”

At first I was frightened; I thought she did not know what she was saying, but she looked at me with smiling eyes, and said: “You don’t know what I mean? Didn’t you know there was a lovely ‘inasmuch’ in his Book for you? Find it when you go home, Emmie.”

I found what I think she meant. Do you girls know the verse? “Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye did it unto me.” Not that Grandma Dunlap is one of the “least,” she is a dear, sweet old lady that anybody might be glad to help, but I am sure that was what she meant; and it made me not care very much about the rest. This isn’t much of a story; it is only to explain to you why I have no story to tell.

If I ever should do any of the nice things I planned, I’ll tell you about them. Until then, you must “take the will for the deed.”

Your loving schoolmate,
Emmeline Morrow.

“WHOSOEVER.”

THERE are children on the floor,

Conning Bible lessons o’er.

“Which word all the Bible through

Do you love best?” queried Sue.

“I like Faith the best,” said one;

“Jesus is my word alone.”

“I like Hope;” “and I like Love;”

“I like Heaven, our home above.”

One more smaller than the rest—

“I like Whosoever best;

“Whosoever, that means all—

Even me, who am so small.”

Whosoever! Ah! I see,

That’s the word for you and me.

“Whosoever will” may come—

Find a pardon and a home.

—Gleanings for the Young.

TELLING CHRISTMAS STORIES.

Volume 15, Number 6. Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Company December 10, 1887.

THE PANSY.

IN THEIR OWN ROOM.—ARRANGING CHRISTMAS CARDS.

UP GARRET.
(More about A Sevenfold Trouble.)

CHAPTER I.

Mrs. C. M. Livingston.

THERE is no denying that it was very hard for Margaret Moore to give up spending the winter with Aunt Cornelia, and, instead, stay at home and wait on her step-mother through a tedious illness. When once she had made up her mind to it, she thought the battle of life was ended and all would hereafter go smoothly with her. Surely she could meet and conquer anything after that. And who can tell what she might not have done if she had kept close to Jesus? but young disciples—and old ones, too—wander from him and forget that it is he they are to trust, and not their own good resolutions.

Margaret forgot this, and so fell into many snares. In the first place, she began to feel she was very good. Instead of thinking about Jesus, what a wonderful Saviour he was, she thought about herself and wondered if everybody did not think she was a self-denying, noble girl to bear disappointments and perform disagreeable duties so patiently. She felt very strong and was sure she should never be cross or angry again. And indeed for a time everything went well. She was patient when waiting on her step-mother and kind to her brothers. Even Johnnie had not power to put her into a rage, although he put burs in her hair and untied her apron strings. There was one thing Margaret chafed under, and that was having Amelia Barrows, her step-mother’s sister, come to keep house for them. Her good resolutions in no wise extended to that person. She had made her mind up very hard that she should not call her “Aunt Amelia.” “She was not her aunt, and never could be,” and “she should not be under orders to her;” not that she would not treat her well, but she should be dignified and give her to understand that she was not such a very little girl. “Thirteen and a half was nearly fourteen—almost a young lady, she was.”

Amelia Barrows was a young woman with eyes and brows as black as Margaret’s own, and a will quite as positive. So it was to be expected that there would be some jarring.

The hardest part of it all to Margaret was that she was obliged to share her room with Amelia. It was a large old house, but there were not a great number of chambers, because they were all large except the hall bedroom. When the minister came Mrs. Moore gave that to him for his library. So there really was no other place for Amelia. Margaret knew it could not be helped, and yet it was so hard to feel that her room was not her very own private room any more. She prided herself greatly on it, and she really did deserve great credit for its cheerful prettiness.

It was only a plain, square room with white-washed walls and a straw matting on the floor, but there were two pleasant windows with cheap white muslin curtains, and the bed was daintily dressed in white and blue. The rocker was covered with blue cretonne, and there were blue mats on the bureau. A bright home-made rug on the floor, small pictures on the walls, and a set of shelves in the corner filled with books; then, in winter, there was always a pleasant sense of warmth because the stovepipe came through from the sitting-room. Altogether, it was quite a cosey place and Margaret was always glad to flee to it and shut herself in from all annoyances. She thought it the prettiest, pleasantest room in the world, and one reason was because it was always in order. Carefulness, when once learned, becomes a habit, and is easier than carelessness. Young as Margaret was when her mother died, she had been taught by her to sweep and dust her own little room, and to hang her clothes at night on hooks placed within her reach, and always to put a thing in its place after using it. She had, besides, inherited dainty tastes and neat ways from her mother, so it was not such a task for her to be orderly as it was for some others.

And so it was with a pang that she saw Amelia walk into her room and take possession with the air of one who had a right there.

It is not easy work to wait upon a sick person, so you must not suppose that Margaret had nothing to do but sit within call in her step-mother’s room handing her something occasionally. She had to take the place of a nurse, young as she was, in the best way she could, for Amelia had her hands full with the housekeeping. It was hard work, and Margaret was often very tired. There was the room to be put in order every morning, and Mrs. Moore was a very particular housekeeper; not a speck of dust, or spot on window or mirror, escaped her keen glance. There was much running up and down-stairs, too, for hot water and cold water; there was liniment and mustard and draughts to be applied by turns to the aching limbs, and sometimes nothing helped; the pain grew worse instead of better, and the patient was not patient, but let fall sharp words at Margaret’s blunders, whereupon poor Margaret blundered still more, and did not give soft answers. Some days, though, everything went well, and her step-mother felt that Margaret really was very different from what she used to be. She was gentle and patient and tried hard to please. The reason was plain; those were the days when she remembered to get her verse from the Bible and think about it, then asked Jesus to keep her, and remembered, too, when temptation came to call to Him to help her. But some mornings she forgot all about it, or she spent too much time curling her hair, or trifling in some way till it was too late, and she had to hurry down-stairs with all speed. There would be time for it after breakfast, she thought, but then it was put off from hour to hour, and perhaps she ended by not doing it at all. When this happened she was fretful and unhappy; nothing went right with her. God made the body so that it cannot go without food at regular times, and keep in order. He made the soul in the same way. It must get food from the Bible, and by thinking about God and speaking to him, or it cannot be a healthy soul. This poor little Christian knew she must eat her breakfast or she would feel faint and weak by ten o’clock, but she had not learned that she must not starve the other and better part of herself. So it was no wonder that she did not always do right.

One reason why it was particularly hard now was that two of her best friends were away. Elmer Newton’s older brother was obliged, from ill health, to spend the winter in the South, and wished to have Elmer with him. Mrs. Duncan felt anxious about her sick brother, and at the last decided to accompany them and remain a few weeks, which lengthened into months. This made a lonely, gloomy time for Margaret, she had come to depending so much upon their help and counsel. She felt as if there was nobody to go to with her troubles and doubts. Mr. Wakefield was always kind, but she stood in a little awe of him because he was the minister, and so, unless strongly excited, was too timid to talk freely with him.

When a girl of thirteen resolves to be dignified toward any body it means that she is going to make herself very disagreeable whether she knows it or not. Amelia Barrows was not an ill-natured young woman, and if Margaret had tried she might have made a friend of her. As it was, Margaret forgot that she was herself several years the younger. She assumed airs of importance, and found fault. She laid down laws about her room, and called Amelia to account if a brush or a chair was not in its exact place.

“See here, young woman!” Amelia said one day, losing all patience, “you’d better stop your high airs. A piece of this room belongs to me while I stay here, and I’m going to do exactly as I please in it. I don’t want to be in it, or in this house, either, but I’m here, and we’ve both got to stand it. I never wanted my sister to marry your father any more than you did,—not as I have anything against him,—but I told her she might as well put her head into a hornets’ nest as to try to manage three saucy young ones. No wonder she’s sick!”

There is no telling what Margaret would have said then if Amelia had not gone out and banged the door after her. She was angry enough to have said anything. To be called “a saucy young one” when she had borne everything, and was almost as tall as a woman; it was too much!

“O, dear!” she sighed, bursting into tears, “I wish she wasn’t here. She’s perfectly horrid!”

When she went down to the well-cooked dinner a couple of hours afterward she forgot to ask herself how they could possibly get along comfortably without Amelia.

There were afternoons when Amelia had leisure to stay with her sister and Margaret was at liberty. One day she went to take a walk, and was sauntering slowly along when Hester Andrews tapped on the window and beckoned her in. Margaret hesitated. She had not been going much with Hester of late, but she finally went into the house. “You poor thing!” Hester said, meeting her with a kiss, “I wonder if you have got out at last! It is just too bad for you to be shut up in the house all winter, waiting on somebody who’s nothing to you; all the neighbors say it’s a shame, and mother says that it is entirely too hard for you.”

SHE MUST BE ALONE SOMEWHERE.

Poor Margaret! She had been trying all day to get the better of her discontent and ugly feelings. Now, they sprang up anew. She looked about the pleasant parlor where Hester sat at her fancy work. Hester seemed to her to have everything she wanted, and to do just as she pleased. How different it was with her! How hard her life was! It had not occurred to her how hard till Hester put it into words.

“If it was your own mother, now,” Hester went on, “why of course you would expect to do all you could, but now, it’s just dreadful. I’d like to see my father put a step-mother over me if my mother was gone—and make a slave of me waiting on her! I’d go out and scrub for a living first.”

Margaret ought to have known, by this time, that Hester always did her harm and not good, and have had courage enough to shun her company. She went into that house in a good frame of mind; she came away feeling that she was a much-abused girl: one who had a bitter lot; and she pitied herself.

If Satan had hired Hester to do some ugly work for him, to spoil Margaret’s peace and draw her away from God, it could not have been better managed, for, besides all the wicked things she had said, she did something more. As Margaret was about to leave,—after having poured into Hester’s sympathizing ears a long story about Amelia and all she had to bear from her,—Hester said, “Wait a minute, Mag. I’ve got a perfectly splendid book, and I’ll let you take it, if you haven’t read it. You’ve got to have something to cheer you up or you’ll die.”

Margaret seized it eagerly. She saw at a glance it was a novel. She had read enough of them to spoil her taste for more solid reading, and to know that she liked them far better than anything else. She felt guilty in taking it, because she had promised Elmer when he went away to read only what would be of benefit. How did she know, though, she told herself, but there was something good in this book? She remembered, too, with a twinge of remorse, that she had not yet touched the books Mrs. Duncan left for her to read, except to look through them and pronounce them “dry.” She meant to read them before the lady returned, but just now she must have a real story to cheer her. Anybody who has read “Madam How and Lady Why,” “A Family Flight,” and “Harry’s Vacation,” knows of what delightful reading Margaret had deprived herself all this time.

The next morning when the room was in order and Mrs. Moore was taking a nap, Margaret brought her basket of work and drew up to the fire, planning for a good time, not with her mending, though. “The Deserted Wife”—Hester’s book—was in the bottom of the basket, well covered with stockings. The fact that it was so hidden, and that she drew a tall rocker between the bed and herself, proved that her conscience was not altogether clear. However, she was soon lost in her book. She did not raise her eyes or move a muscle, except to turn over the leaves for a long time; she even forgot to breathe except by irregular gasps; she read with feverish haste, because her step-mother might waken at any moment and require her help, and she must know what happened next.

If Hester had but placed a live coal in her hands instead of this book! She would have dropped that instantly and have burned only her fingers. This tale of sin and shame and crime might leave scars on her soul forever.

Mrs. Moore had an unusually long sleep, for two hours had passed away when Margaret was startled by her voice, saying,—

“Seems to me it is cold here. Has the fire gone out? Where are you, Margaret?”

Sure enough, the wood fire had burned to ashes, and the room was quite chilly. Margaret hid away her book and went for kindlings. They were wet, and the fire smoked and sulked, but did not burn for a long time. Her father came in to dinner before the chill was off the room. He noticed it, for it was a raw, windy day, and told Margaret, rather sharply, that her mother’s room ought not to become cold like that, and there was no need of it if she had attended to the fire as she should. Margaret could never bear to have her father speak sternly to her. She went off to her room in a tempest of tears, telling herself, amid sobs—as foolish girls do at such times—that there was nobody to love her.

This was only one of the many difficulties she brought herself into during the next few weeks. She plunged into a perfect whirlpool of novel reading. As fast as one book was devoured Hester provided another. She read “The Fatal Marriage,” “The Terrible Secret,” “A Bridge of Love,” “Lady Gwendoline’s Dream,” and “Lord Lynn’s Choice,” besides many more. She read while she was dressing, and snatched every moment through the day. She even sat up nights and pored over those fascinating books, when she should have been sleeping. Sometimes she stole out in the evening and walked up and down the street with Hester, and talked them over. So she constantly lived in another world. She was in a frenzy of eagerness to get through whatever she was doing, and drown all her senses in a book. As a natural consequence, nothing went well with her. She hated her lot and its duties. She longed to get away and live with the beautiful, unreal people she had read about.

Novel-readers are usually cross. Poor Margaret was very cross. She disputed constantly with Weston, and boxed Johnnie’s ears when he teased her. He turned everything into rhymes, so when he had succeeded in putting her into a rage, he would leave off singing,

“Aunt Ameliar,

She’s a pealer,”

and would dance about Margaret, shouting in her ears,

“Mag is mad,

And I am glad.”

This would make Margaret very angry, and sometimes the two had what Amelia called “a scuffle.” She would interfere at last and declare, as Johnnie ran off laughing, that Margaret was the “worst of the whole pack if she was a church member. She would rather be nothing than a hypocrite.”

And Margaret in these days was impertinent to her step-mother and jerked things about in a way that is very trying to a sick person. She left undone all she possibly could, allowed great holes to come in her stockings, and went about slip-shod, with the buttons nearly gone from her shoes, and did not take the “stitch in time” that “saves nine.” There were worse neglects, too.

Since this fatal disease of novel-reading had come upon her she did not read her Bible scarcely at all. On Sunday afternoons she held it a while and gazed out of the window, then went hurriedly through a chapter without knowing a word that was in it. As if the Bible would do one any more good than the geography unless its words were understood and treasured up.

It was the same with prayer. She forgot it entirely, or she murmured a sentence or two while she was running down-stairs in the morning or after she was in bed at night. It was mere form, and not true praying at all.

Mr. Wakefield had been sadly perplexed about Margaret. He felt sure, from what he saw and heard, that all was not well with her. She seemed to avoid him, and whenever he had an opportunity to speak with her she said as little as possible, and got away as soon as she could. What evil influence could be at work upon her? Not her step-mother’s. He felt sure that if Mrs. Moore but knew how, she would be glad to help the girl. One evening as he walked homeward he was thinking about Margaret, and wondering what he could do to help her. As he came near Mr. Andrews’ house somebody came out of their gate and ran down the street just in front of him. As she passed the lamp-post, and the light fell full upon her, he saw that it was Margaret. As she turned in at her own gate a book slipped from under her arm and fell to the ground, but she did not know it. She hurried up the steps and closed the door after her. Mr. Wakefield picked up the book, slipped it inside his coat, and went up to his own room; then he lighted the gas and sat down to see what sort of a book it was which would surely help or hinder this young Christian. He read enough to satisfy him that he had found the clue to Margaret’s difficulties. What soul could thrive on such mental food? “Satan is at the bottom of it!” he said, half-aloud, flinging the book from him. He sat a long time with his face between his hands, thinking.

The next evening, after tea, Mr. Wakefield lingered in the sitting-room and asked Margaret to try some of the pieces in the new Sabbath-school hymn-book. Margaret’s cabinet organ had been her mother’s, and was now a source of much pleasure to herself. She had learned to play sacred music nicely, so she and the minister often sang together. Johnnie sang a few minutes and then ran off. When they were left alone, Mr. Wakefield stepped into the hall and came back with the book he had picked up the night before.

“Margaret,” he said, “can you imagine to whom this belongs? I picked it up on the street last night.”

Now Margaret had been greatly troubled about the book all day; she knew Hester would be angry with her if it were lost, so it was with a sense of relief that she read the title, “Disinherited.”

“Oh! I’m so glad you found it,” she exclaimed, then stopped and blushed. She had a feeling that perhaps Mr. Wakefield would not quite approve of this sort of reading, and she had not meant to let him know that she ever read such books.

She felt very uncomfortable, and stood with her eyes on the carpet, waiting for him to lecture her severely, but he did nothing of the kind. When she looked up, his face and his tones were kind as he asked,—

“Do you love to read, Margaret?”

“Better than anything,” promptly answered Margaret.

“Do you like books of this sort—novels?” he continued.

She studied the pattern of the carpet a moment, and twisted one of her curls, then said, almost defiantly,—

“Yes, sir; I do.”

Mr. Wakefield forgot that he had meant to be very calm and gentle, and he said almost fiercely, as he walked back and forth,—

“O you poor child, I wish I could have saved you from this. Margaret, do you know what a horrible thing this novel-reading is; how the thirst for it is like the thirst for liquor? It drives out the love of Christ from the heart. It ruins souls! But there! I did not mean to frighten you,” he said, as the tears gathered in Margaret’s eyes. “Sit down and let us talk the matter over calmly. Let me tell you how near I came to being ruined by that trap of Satan’s myself.”

Just here the door-bell was heard, and Johnnie brought in Deacon Grey who had called to see the minister, while Margaret slipped out of the other door.

She flew, rather than ran, up-stairs. She tip-toed softly through the hall, for she did not wish any one to see her just then. As she went by a door which stood ajar, she heard her own name, and unconsciously paused. Her step-mother’s voice was saying:—

“We’ve got to make some different arrangements. Margaret gets worse every day. I’ve tried to be patient, but some days she acts like a little fury. Amelia says she sits up nights to read novels. I talked to her about it, and she just the same as told me it was not my affair. I thought it was all nonsense, her joining the church. What do such children know about it? I guess you had better send her to your aunt’s if she wants her. We can get along somehow.”

Then her father’s voice groaned out,—

“I’m sure I don’t know what is going to become of her.”

Margaret waited to hear no more. She turned to go into her own room, but Amelia was there; growing desperate, she went back into the dark hall and softly opening the door that led up garret, groped her way up the narrow stairs. She must be alone somewhere. It was a long, wide garret stretching over the whole house. This was the old homestead of the Moore family, and “take it up garret,” had been said of all the lame furniture and not-wanted articles for a whole generation. It was a cheerful place by daylight; a capital place for a romp; but to-night it looked “pokerish.” The tall chimneys reared themselves like grim giants at each end; old hats and coats hung from the rafters, and the moon, looking in at the gable window, made dancing shadows on the floor, of the long, bare branches of the elm-tree.

Margaret had never been up garret in the dark before. She would have been afraid if she had not been in such a tumult. She flung herself upon an old chest by the window, and cried out her mortification and anger in long, deep sobs. The moon beamed down in a kindly way, and the eye of God looked upon her in love and pity, but the poor child did not know it.

THE CONE.

YOU may plant the cone of a California Pine in a vase of earth, and cover it with a glass, and set it in your window to catch the sunbeams, and keeping the earth moist the pine will grow until it reaches the top of the glass, and it will search all around to find some way out of its prison, and will press with all its vital force toward Heaven. But the glass resists the pressure, and those little branches turn back to earth, the stunted pine soon withers to the very root.

But plant that cone in its native soil, and give it showers and sunshine, and it will lift its branches higher and higher, for thousands of years, until it forms the loftiest pile of verdure on the face of the earth. So a man may plant his hopes on a little spot of earth, and close himself in with the covering of earthly pleasures, and for awhile he may long to break through his prison walls and come forth to a freer life. But, in the end, if he keeps his covering on, his growth will be downward and dwarfed. But let him break forth from the contracted circle of a worldly life, let him cultivate hopes worthy his immortal destiny, let him look upon God as his Father, and himself as the heir of boundless creation, and he shall grow in greatness and in joy; “he shall be made a king and reign forever!”

“If thou cans’t plant a noble deed

And never flag till it succeed

Though in the strife thy heart shall bleed,

Go on, brave soul, thy hour will come—

Thou’lt win the prize, and reach the goal.”

—Selected.

LYING IN WAIT.

Volume 15, Number 7. Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Company December 17, 1887.

THE PANSY.

OUR TIGER.