"Come and see our chapel, Claire," said Abby; the word oratory did not yet come trippingly to her tongue.
Claire was delighted with the beautiful image, and behaved as decorously as if she were in church. Afterward the children took her to walk. They went into the park, in which there were many handsome flower-pots, several fountains, and a number of fine pieces of marble statuary. Claire seemed to be much impressed with the latter.
"Oh, my!" she exclaimed, pointing to them reverently. "Look at all theBlessed Virgins!"
The children laughed. She stood looking at them with a little frown, not having quite made up her mind whether to join in their mirth, or to be vexed. When her mistake was explained to her, she said, with a pout:
"Well, if they are not Blessed Virgins, then I don't care about them, and I'm going home."
The children had promptly sent a note to Father Dominic thanking him for his appropriate May-Day gift. Each had a share in the composition of this acknowledgment, but it had been carefully copied by Abby. Later they had the satisfaction of showing him the oratory. While Claire was with them, he happened to call again one evening just as the young people were saying good-night.
"Larry," whispered Abby, when they went upstairs and she knelt with her brother and cousin before the little altar,—"Larry, let's say our prayers real loud, so Father Dominic will know how good we've got to be since we've had the lovely statue."
"All right," said Larry, obediently.
They began, Abby leading off in clear, distinct accents, and Larry following in a heavy alto; for his voice was unusually deep and sonorous for such a little fellow. Baby Claire listened wonderingly. Then, apparently making up her mind that the clamor was due to the intensity of their fervor, she joined with her shrill treble, and prayed with all her might and main.
To a certain extent, they succeeded in their object. The din of their devotions soon penetrated to the library, where their friend Father Dominic was chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Clayton. In a few moments the latter stepped quietly into the lower hall.
"Abby!" she called, softly.
The little girl pretended not to hear, and kept on.
"Abby!"—there was a decision in the tone which was not to be trifled with.
"What is it, mother?" she asked, with an assumption of innocence, breaking off so suddenly as to startle her companions.
"Not so loud, dear. You can be heard distinctly in the library."
Abby and Larry snickered; Claire giggled without knowing why. Then Abby applied herself with renewed earnestness and volubility to the litany. She did not intend any disrespect: on the contrary, she meant to be very devout. But she not only believed in the injunction "Let your light shine before men," but felt that it behooved her to attract Father Dominic's attention to the fact that itwasshining. Clearer and higher rose her voice; deeper and louder sounded Larry's; more shrilly piped Claire.
"Abby!" called Mrs. Clayton again, with grave displeasure. "That will do. Children, go to your rooms at once."
The others stole off without another word, but Abby lingered a minute. Father Dominic was going, and she could not resist the impulse to wait and learn what impression their piety had made. Leaning over the balusters, she saw him laughing in an amused manner. Then he said to her mother:
"Tell Abby she has such a good, strong voice, I wish I could have her read the prayers for the Sodality. She would surely be heard all over the church."
He went away, and Abby crept upstairs with burning cheeks and an unpleasant suspicion that she had made herself ridiculous.
Mrs. Clayton suspected that her little daughter had overheard the message. She therefore spared the children any reference to the subject. But the next time they met Father Dominic he alluded, as if casually, to the devotions suitable for May, and then quite naturally went on to speak of the virtues of the Blessed Virgin, especially of her humility and love of retirement; saying how, although the Mother of God, she was content to lead a humble, hidden life at Nazareth, with no thought or wish to proclaim her goodness from the house-tops. The lesson was gently and kindly given, but Abby was shrewd enough and sufficiently well disposed to understand. She felt that she was indeed learning a great deal during this Month of Mary.
About the middle of the month there was a stir of pleasurable excitement at St. Mary's School.
"Suppose we get up a May drama among the younger pupils?" suggestedMarion Gaines, the leading spirit of the graduating class.
The proposition was received with enthusiasm, and Mother Rosalie was applied to for permission.
"Yes," she answered, "you have my consent to your plan; but on one condition—that you arrange the drama and drill the children yourselves. It will be good practice for you in the art of composition; and, by teaching others, you will prove whether or not you have profited by Professor Willet's lessons in elocution."
The Graduates were delighted.
"That is just like Mother Rosalie," said Marion. "She is willing to trust us, and leaves us to our own resources, so that if we succeed all the credit will be ours. Now we must draw up a plan. Shall we decide upon a plot, and then each work out a portion of it?"
"Oh, dear, I never could think of anything!" declared one.
"I should not know how to manage the dialogue. My characters would be perfect sticks," added a second.
"I can't even write an interesting letter," lamented some one else.
"I respectfully suggest that Marion and Ellen be requested to compose the drama," said the first speaker, with mock ceremony.
"I agree with all my heart!" cried one.
"And I,"—"and I!" chimed in the others.
"It is a unanimous vote," continued their spokesman, turning to the young ladies in question, with a low bow.
"But we shall have all the work," objected Marion.
"No: we will take a double share at the rehearsals, and they will be no small part of the trouble."
"I'll do it if you will, Ellen," began Marion.
"I don't mind trying," agreed Ellen.
Thus the matter was settled.
"Let us first select the little girls to take part in our drama,"Marion continued.
"There's Annie Conwell," said one.
"And Lucy Caryl," interposed another.
So they went on, till they had chosen ten or twelve little girls.
"As it is to be a May piece, of course we must have a Queen," saidEllen.
"Yes; and let us have Abby Clayton for the Queen," rejoined Marion. "Abby is passably good-looking and rather graceful; besides, she has a clear, strong voice, and plenty of self-confidence. She would not be apt to get flustered. Annie Conwell, now, is a dear child; but perhaps she would be timid, and it would spoil the whole play if the Queen should break down."
After school the little girls were invited into the Graduates' class-room; and, although not a word of the drama had yet been written, the principal parts were then and there assigned. Lucy Caryl was to have the opening address, Annie as many lines as she would undertake, and so on.
Abby was delighted to find that she was chosen for the most prominentrole. She ran all the way home, and skipped gaily into the house and up to the sitting-room, where Mrs. Clayton was sewing.
"O mother!" she exclaimed, tossing off her hat and throwing her books upon the table, "we are to have a lovely drama at our school, and I'm to be the May-Queen!"
"Just think, Larry!" said Abby to her brother, when he came home after a game of ball, "I'm to be Queen of May!"
"You!" he cried, in a disdainful tone.
"Yes, indeed! And why not? I'm sure I don't see why you should look so surprised. I've been chosen because I can speak and act the best in our division."
"But the Blessed Virgin is Queen of May," objected Larry.
"Oh, of course!" Abby said. "But this will be only make believe, you know. We are going to have a drama, and I'm to be Queen,—that is all."
"I should think you would not even want to play at taking away what belongs to the Blessed Virgin," persisted Larry, doggedly. "She is the Queen of May, and no one ought to pretend to be Queen besides."
"Oh, you silly boy! There is no use in trying to explain anything to you!" cried Abby, losing patience.
For the next half hour she was not so talkative, however, and after a while she stole away; for in spite of her petulance at Larry's words, they had suggested a train of thought which made her want to be by herself. She went up to the oratory and stayed there a long time, amid the twilight shadows. Finally the ringing of the supper bell put an end to her musings. She knelt a few minutes before the statue, and then ran down to the dining-room. She was very quiet all the evening; and, to Mrs. Clayton's surprise, the family heard no more of the May drama.
The next day, at school, Abby waylaid Marion Gaines in one of the corridors.
"I want to speak to you," she began.
"Well, what's the matter, Abby? What makes you so serious this morning?" inquired Marion.
"Nothing—only I've been thinking about the May piece, and I want to tell you that I'd rather not be Queen," faltered the little girl,
"You'd rather not be Queen!" repeated Marion, in astonishment. "Why not? I thought you were delighted to be chosen."
"So I was—yesterday," the little girl hastened to say; for she would not have Marion think she did not appreciate the compliment.
"Then what has caused you to change your mind so suddenly?" Marion went on. "What a fickle child you are, to be sure!"
"It is not that," stammered poor Abby, a good deal confused; "but—but—well, you know the Blessed Virgin is Queen of May, and it seems as if we ought not even to play at having any other Queen."
Marion stared at her incredulously. "And so missy has a scruple about it?" she said, smiling.
"No," returned Abby; "but my brother Larry thought so. And if it looks that way even to a little boy like him, I think I would rather not pretend to be Queen."
"A May piece without a Queen! Why, it would be like the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out!" declared Marion. "Did you not think that if you declined the part we might give it to some one else?"
Abby colored and was silent. This had, indeed, been the hardest part of the struggle with herself. But there was an element of the heroic in her character. She never did anything by halves; like the little girl so often quoted, "when she was good, she was very,very, good."
Marion stood a moment looking at her. "And do you really mean," she said at length, "that you are ready to give up theroleyou were so delighted with yesterday, and the satisfaction of queening it over your companions if only for an hour?—that you are willing to make the sacrifice to honor the Blessed Virgin?"
With some embarrassment, Abby admitted that this was her motive.
A sudden thought occurred to Marion. "Then, Abby, you shall!" said she. "I'll arrange it; but don't say a word about it to any one. Let the girls think you are to be Queen, if they please. Why, missy," she went on, becoming enthusiastic, "it is really a clever idea for our drama. We shall have a lovely May piece, after all."
Marion hastened away, intent upon working out the new plan which her quick fancy had already sketched in outline. To be sure, she and Ellen had devised a different one, and agreed that each should write certain scenes. Ellen had taken the first opportunity that morning to whisper that she had devoted to the drama all the previous evening and an hour before breakfast. Marion, indeed, had done the same.
"But it will not make any difference. We can change the lines a little," she said to herself, after reading the manuscript, which Ellen passed to her at the hour of German study,—a time they were allowed to take for this particular composition.
Ellen, however, thought otherwise.
"What! another plan for the May piece!" she said, when Marion mentioned the subject. "Why, see all I've written; and in rhyme, too!"
"But it can be altered without much trouble," explained her friend.
"No, it can't. You will only make a hodge-podge of my verses," she answered, excitedly. "I do think, Marion, that once we agreed upon the plan, you ought to have kept to it, instead of changing everything just because of a notion of a little girl like Abby Clayton. Here I've been working hard for nothing,—it was just a waste of time!"
Marion pleaded and reasoned, but without avail. Ellen's vanity was wounded. She chose to imagine that her classmate, and sometimes rival, did not care whether her lines were spoiled or not.
"No, no!" she reiterated. "I'll have nothing to do with your new plan.You can get up the whole piece yourself."
"At least give me what you have written," urged Marion. "We are so hurried, and the children ought to have their parts as soon as possible."
But Ellen remained obdurate.
Marion consulted the others of the class, and, after some discussion, they decided in favor of the later design. For the next few days she devoted every spare moment to the work. By the end of the week she had not only finished the portion she had been expected to write, but also much of what Ellen was to have done; and the parts were distributed among the children. There were still wanting, however, the opening address and a dialogue, both of which Ellen had completed.
"Oh, dear," cried Marion, "that address of Ellen's is so pretty and appropriate! If she would only let us have it! As we planned it together, if I write one the principal ideas will be the same; and then, likely as not, she will say I copied from hers. How shall I manage?"
Ellen remained on her dignity. She would have nothing to do either with Marion or the drama, and kept aloof from her classmates generally.
The intelligence had spread through the school that the two graduates had differed over the May piece. The exact point in dispute was not known, however: for Marion wished to keep her design a secret, and Ellen would not condescend to explain. In fact, she did not clearly understand it herself; for she had been too vexed at the proposal to change the plan to listen to what Marion said upon the subject.
During this state of affairs poor Abby was very unhappy. She felt that she was the cause of all the trouble; and it seemed hard that what she had done with the best of intentions should have made so much ill-feeling. This disastrous occurrence was followed by another, which made her think herself a very unfortunate little girl.
As has already been explained, it was Larry's delight to keep always a few fresh blossoms in his pretty vase before the beloved statue of the Blessed Virgin. This he attended to himself, and no one ever interfered with the vase. On the day referred to Abby had been rehearsing with Marion, and thus it happened that they walked part of the way home together. Marion stopped at a florist's stand and bought a little bunch of arbutus.
"Here, put this on your altar," she said, giving it to Abby. She had heard all about the oratory.
When the little girl reached the house Larry had not yet come in, and the flowers had not been renewed that day.
"I'll surprise him," she said to herself. "How pleased he will be to see this nice little bouquet!"
She took the vase, threw away the withered violets it contained, replaced them with the May-flowers, and put it back. But, alas! being taken up with admiring the delicate pink arbutus, and inhaling its fragrance, she did not notice that she had set the vase in an unsteady position. The next moment it tipped over, fell to the floor, and lay shattered at the foot of the altar. Abby stood and gazed at it hopelessly, too distressed even to gather up the fragments.
"Oh, what will Larry say!" she cried, wringing her hands. "He thought so much of that vase! What shall I do?"
While she was thus lamenting she heard Larry's voice. He was coming straight up to the oratory. In another minute he threw open the door; he had a little cluster of buttercups in his hand, and was so intent upon putting them in the vase that he was half-way across the room before he noticed the broken pieces on the floor. When he did so, he stopped and glared at his sister.
"O Larry," she stammered, contritely, "it was an accident! See! Marion Gaines gave me those lovely May-flowers, and I thought you'd be pleased to have them in your vase. Just as I went to put it back, it fell over. I'm awfully sorry!"
Larry's eyes flashed angrily, and his face grew crimson.
"Abby Clayton," he broke out, "you are always meddling! Why can't you let things that don't belong to you alone?"'
A storm of reproaches would no doubt have followed, but just then his angry glance turned toward the statue. There stood the image of Our Lady, so meek and beautiful and mild. And there, in a tiny frame at the front of the altar, hung father Dominic's words of advice: "Try every day to do some little thing to honor our Blessed Mother."
Larry paused suddenly; for his indignation almost choked him. But in that moment of silence he had time to reflect. What should he do to-day to honor the Blessed Virgin, now that his little vase was broken? He looked again at the statue. The very sight of the sweet face suggested gentler thoughts, and counselled kindness, meekness, and forbearance.
"Well, Abby," he blurted out, "I suppose I'll have to forgive you; but, oh, how I wish I were only six years old, so that I could cry!"
So saying, Larry laid the buttercups at the feet of Our Lady's statue, and rushed from the room.
The next day it happened that Ellen discovered Abby in tears at the window of the class-room. Ellen, although quick-tempered and impulsive, was kind-hearted.
"What is the trouble now, child?" she asked, gently, taking Abby's hand in hers.
"Oh," sobbed Abby, "I feel so dreadfully to think that you and Marion don't speak to each other! And it's all my fault; because from something I said to Marion she thought that, instead of taking one among ourselves, it would be much nicer to choose the Blessed Virgin for our May-Queen."
"And was that Marion Gaines' plan?" asked Ellen, in surprise.
"Why, yes! But surely she must have told you!" said the little girl.
"I see now that she tried to," replied Ellen, with a sigh at her own impetuosity. "But I was too vexed to listen. I did not really understand before. Dry your tears, Abby; I'll do my best to make amends now. How foolish I've been!" she ejaculated, as Abby ran off in gay spirits. "And how I must have disedified the other girls! I must try to make up for it."
She found the verses she had written; and, on looking them over, concluded that, after all, they needed only the change of a few words here and there. Then she wrote a little note to Marion, as follows:
"DEAR MARION:—I did not realize until today what you wanted to do about the May piece. If my verses would be of any use at this late hour, you are welcome to them. I should like to do all I can to help now, to make up for lost time."
Marion gladly accepted the overtures of peace. The May drama was duly finished, the rehearsals went on smoothly, and on the last day of the Month of Mary the performance took place.
It had been rumored in the school that Abby was not to be Queen, and there was much speculation as to which of the little girls had been selected instead. As the drama progressed, and the plan was unfolded, the audience was taken completely by surprise. Everyone had been eager to see the May-Queen; but there was a general murmur of appreciation when, at the close, the curtain rose upon a beautiful tableau; a shrine glittering with many lights, in the midst of which was enthroned a lovely image of Our Lady, at whose feet the children laid their crowns of flowers—a crown to honor each transcendent virtue,—and paid their homage to their beautiful Queen of May.
A few days later Father Dominic called at the Claytons.
"Well, children," he asked, incidentally, "have you done anything to please the Blessed Virgin during the past month?"
Abby and Larry were silent, but their mother kindly answered:
"I think they have tried, Father Dominic. And as for your lovely May-Day gift, the presence of the statue seems to have drawn down a blessing upon the house."
Quite happy indeed was the home of Tilderee Prentiss, though it was only a rough log house on a ranch, away out in Indian Territory. Her father was employed by the owner of the ranch. He had, however, a small tract of land for himself, and owned three horses and several cows. Her mother's duties included the management of a small dairy and poultry yard, the products of which were readily sold at the military post some miles distant.
There were two other children: Peter, thirteen years old; and Joanna, or Joan as she was called, who had just passed her eleventh birthday. They took care of the fowl, and were proud when at the end of the week they could bring to their mother a large basket of eggs to carry to the Fort.
The only one of the family who could afford to do nothing was six-year-old Tilderee, though they thought she did a good deal—that is, all except Joan; for she seemed to make everybody's else burden lighter by her merriness, her droll sayings, and sweet, loving little ways.
Yet she was continually getting into mischief; and to see her trotting to and fro, eager to be of use, but always lending a little hindering hand to everything, one would hardly consider her a help. "How should I ever get on without the child!" her mother would often exclaim; while at the same moment Tilderee might be dragging at her gown and interfering with her work at every step.
How frequently Mrs. Prentiss laughed, though with tears in her eyes, as she thought of the time when Tilderee, a toddling baby, was nearly drowned by tumbling head-foremost into a pailful of foaming milk, and no one would have known and rushed to save her but for the barking of the little terrier Fudge! Then there was the scar still to be found beneath the soft ringlets upon her white forehead, a reminder of the day when she tried to pull the spotted calf's tail. How frightened "papa" was at the discovery that his mischievous daughter had been at his ammunition chest, played dolls with the cartridges, and complained that gunpowder did not make as good mud pies as "common dirt!"
Peter and Joan could add their story, too. Peter might tell, for instance, how Tilderee and Fudge, the companion of most of her pranks, frightened off the shy prairie-dogs he was trying to tame; saying they had no right to come there pretending to be dogs when they were only big red squirrels, which indeed they greatly resembled. Still he was very fond of his little sister. He liked to pet and romp with her, to carry her on his back and caper around like the friskiest of ponies. When he paused for breath she patted his sun-burned cheek with her dimpled hand, saying, in her cooing voice, "Good brother Pippin!" which was her nickname for him. Then he forgot that she delighted to tease him,—that her favorite pastime was to chase the young chicks and cause a tremendous flutter in the poultry yard; and how vexed he had been when she let his mustang out of the enclosure, "because," she said, "Twinkling Hoofs needs a bit of fun and a scamper as well as anybody; and he was trying to open the gate with his nose." It took two days to find the mustang and coax him back again. Tilderee was penitent for fully ten minutes after this escapade; but she endeavored to console herself and Peter by declaring, "I know, Pippin, that the Indians must have Twinkling Hoofs by this time. And he's so pretty they'll keep him for a chief to ride; a big, fat chief, with a gay blanket and a feather headdress, and red and blue paint on his face. Won't Twinkling Hoofs be s'prised at all that? But never mind, Pippin; papa will let you ride the old grey horse!"
No one knew better than Joan, however, just how tantalizing Tilderee could be,—how she dallied in the morning playing hide-and-seek, refusing to have her face washed and her tangled hair brushed into shining curls; this, too, when Joan was in the greatest hurry to go and give the fluffy chicks and the grave old fowl their breakfast. It was very well for Peter to say, "What should we do without Tilderee?" If she bothered him he could take his rifle and go shooting with Abe, the old scout; or jump upon Twinkling Hoofs and gallop all over the ranch. How would he like the midget to tag after him all day, to have the care of her when mother went to the Fort to sell the butter and eggs? "Indeed I could get on very well without the little plague," Joan sometimes grumbled—"just for ateentybit of a while," she generally added, hastily; for she really loved her little sister dearly. Joan tried hard to be patient, but she had a quick temper, and occasionally forgot her good resolutions. This happened one day when her mother had gone to dispose of the dairy products. The provocation was certainly great.
Joan had a lovely French doll—the only French doll in the Territory, and probably the most beautiful one to be found within many hundred miles. Mrs. Miller, the wife of one of the officers at the Fort, brought it to her from Chicago; and the little girl regarded it as more precious than all the family possessions combined. What, then, was her consternation this morning to see Fudge dash around the corner of the house dangling the fair Angelina by the blue silk dress, which he held between his teeth, and Tilderee following in wild pursuit! Joan rushed out and rescued her treasure; but, alas! it was in a sadly dilapidated condition. She picked up a stick and started after the dog, but Tilderee interfered.
"Oh, please, dear Joan!" she cried, holding her back by the apron strings. "Fudge isn't the most to blame. I took Angelina. I s'pose he pulled off the wig and broke the arm, but I pushed the eyes in; didn't mean to, though—was only trying to make them open and shut. Tilderee's so sorry, Joan!"
The explanation ended with a contrite sob and what Mr. Prentiss called "a sun shower." But the sight of the child's tears, instead of appeasing, only irritated Joan the more. Giving her a smart shake, she said excitedly:
"Tilderee Prentiss, you're a naughty, naughty girl! I wish you didn't live here. I wish mother had let you go with the lady at the Fort who wanted to adopt you. I wish I hadn't any little sister at all!"
Tilderee stopped crying, and stood gazing at the angry girl in astonishment; then, swallowing a queer lump that came in her throat, she drew herself up with a baby dignity which would have been funny but for the pathetic expression of her sweet face, as she lisped slowly: "Very well. P'rhaps some day Tilderee'll go away and never come back again!"
She turned and went into the house, with Fudge at her heels. As he passed Joan his tail, which had drooped in shame at his conduct, erected itself defiantly, and he uttered a growl of protest.
Joan remained disconsolately hugging and weeping over the ill-fated Angelina. But, somehow, she did not feel any better for having yielded to her anger. "Tilderee deserved a good scolding," she said to herself over and over again. Still there was a weight upon her heart, not caused by the ruin of the doll; for, notwithstanding all the excuses she could muster, her conscience reproached her for those unkind, bitter words. After a while, remembering that she had been cautioned not to let Tilderee out of her sight, she started to look for her. The culprit was soon discovered in the corner of the kitchen cupboard, which she called-her "cubby-house," engaged in lecturing Fudge for running away with Angelina.
"Never meddle with what does not belong to you!" she said, laying down the law with her mite of a forefinger; and, to make her words more impressive, giving him an occasional tap on the nose. He listened dutifully, as if he were the sole transgressor; but interrupted the homily now and then by lapping the hand of his little mistress with his tiny red tongue, as a token of the perfect understanding between them.
When they looked up and saw Joan, both glanced at her deprecatingly, but quite ready to assume a defensive attitude. Ashamed of having allowed her indignation to carry her so far, she was, however, inclined to be conciliatory; and therefore, with an effort, managed to say, as if nothing had happened:
"Come, Tilderee! Watch at the window for father, while I get dinner ready."
Tilderee at once sprang to her feet gaily, threw her arms around Joan's waist, and held up her rosy mouth for the kiss of mutual forgiveness, Fudge wriggling and wagging his tail.
Joan now busied herself about the mid-day meal, for which her mother had made the principal preparation before setting out. She said nothing about the tragedy of the morning when her father came in, partly because she felt that nobody could appreciate the depth of her grief but mother, and because she had made up her mind not to complain of Tilderee,—a conclusion which she secretly felt entitled her to rank as a heroine. But Tilderee related the occurrence herself as soon as her mother returned.
"Fudge and me broke Joan's beauty doll. We didn't mean to, and we're awful sorry,—honest and true we are!"
"But that will not mend Angelina," said Mrs. Prentiss, gravely.
Tilderee hung her head. She now realized for the first time, that no matter how grieved we are, we can not always repair the wrong we have done. The mother, though a plain, uneducated woman, had plenty of good sense, and did her best to train her children well. She now talked very seriously to her little daughter, and Tilderee promised to be less meddlesome and more obedient in the future.
"Fudge and me wants to be good," she said, penitently; "but we forgets. P'rhaps if we were other folks, and our names were something else 'sides Tilderee and Fudge, we might be better."
"I'm afraid Fudge is a hard case," sighed her mother, restraining a smile; "and I should not like to see my little girl changed into any one else. But I expect we ought to call you as you were christened, and that is Matilda. It is a saint's name, you know; and you can pray to your name saint to help you."
The little lass was delighted to have the question settled in this manner, and from that time strove to insist upon her proper title. But it was not easy to drop the pet name, and Tilderee she was oftenest called, till long after the date of this story. For several days she tried very hard to be good; she said her prayers night and morning with special earnestness, always closing with: "Please, God, take care of Tilderee, and keep her and Fudge out of mischief."
Joan, on her part, endeavored to be more gentle with her little sister; for, while every day she lamented the fate of the doll, she could not think of it without feeling a trifle uncomfortable about the way she had spoken to Tilderee.
The two little girls were not allowed to go beyond the enclosure which surrounded the house, unless accompanied by their father or mother. The few Indians in the vicinity had hitherto been peaceable and friendly; but it was considered well to be cautious, and the country was too sparsely settled to render it safe for one to wander about alone. When Mrs. Prentiss, mounted on the old grey horse, rode to the Fort to sell her butter and eggs, Peter went with her on Twinkling Hoofs; and each took the precaution to carry a pistol for self-defence in case of attack.
This being the state of affairs, great was the alarm of all one day as it became evident that Tilderee was missing. The ranch was a scene of intense excitement when, after an exploration of the neighborhood, the child was not found. The news spread like a prairie fire. The settlers for miles around joined the party which set out to continue the search. The poor mother was frantic. The father went about helplessly, like a man dazed by a terrible blow. Peter galloped wildly to and fro upon Twinkling Hoofs, without an idea where he was going. Joan cried as though her heart would break.
Fudge had disappeared also. Had he gone with Tilderee? There was a grain of comfort in the suggestion; yet, even so, what could a poor baby do, astray and with no other defender? Evening came, and still there was no trace of the child. All through the night they continued to seek her, guided by the light of the stars and the glimmer of their pine torches. But in vain.
On that memorable day, shortly after dinner, if mother had not been so absorbed by the discovery that certain wee, blundering fingers had sprinkled sugar instead of salt over her new batch of butter; or if Joan, instead of going for the third time since morning to the lowest drawer of the deal clothes-press which contained the family wardrobe, to take an aggrieved look at Angelina,—if either had glanced out of the doorway, she would have seen a diminutive figure tripping down the trail in happy unconcern, with Fudge gambolling along in front.
Tilderee did not mean to be disobedient: she had no intention of running away; but it was so easy to forget that she had passed the bounds which love had set for her, when the May breezes, like eager playmates, seemed to beset her to frolic with them, catching at her frock, tip-tilting her pretty print sunbonnet (the one with the tiny pink roses scattered over a blue ground), ruffling her chestnut curls, and whisking her little plaid shawl awry. A patch of yellow wild flowers by the way appeared all at once endowed with wings, as from their midst arose a flight of golden butterflies. What fun to chase them! Fudge thought so too, and a merry pursuit followed. Tired and out of breath, Tilderee paused at last. Fudge returned with a bound to her side, and stood panting and wagging his tail, as if to ask: "Well, what shall we play next?" They were now half a mile from home, but neither turned to look back.
"Fudge, I'm going to pick a lovely bouquet for mother," Tilderee confided to him, patting his shaggy head. He sniffed his approval, and trotted after her as she flitted hither and thither culling the bright blossoms. Now she left the lowlands called the prairie, and climbed Sunset Hill in search of prettier posies. Beyond this rocky knoll was an oak wood, from the direction of which came the noise of running water. At the sound Tilderee remembered that she was thirsty. "There must be a brook in yonder," she said. "Come, Fudge, let us go and see." Trampling among the brambles, the little girl pushed on, and soon came to a small stream dashing along over a stony course. Forming an oak leaf into a cup, as she had often seen Joan do, Tilderee dipped it into the clear current; and by this means, and the sips between times which she took up in the hollow of her hand, succeeded in obtaining a refreshing drink; while from the opposite bank Fudge put down his head and took his share with less ceremony.
Tilderee chose a seat upon a log and rested. To amuse herself she broke off pieces of the underbrush and began to strip them of their leaves. "To make horsewhips, you know," she explained, with a teasing glance at Fudge. He understood very well, and shrank away a trifle; but the next minute the baby hands caressed his rough coat, and she added lovingly: "No, no, Fudge! Nobody shall touch such a good dog!" Throwing aside the sticks, she tried to weave the leaves into garlands, as Joan had taught her. The attempt was hardly a success. As the wreath with which Fudge submitted to be crowned speedily fell apart, she concluded that, instead of making a chain for herself, it would be nicer to carry the oak twig for a sun-shade. At present, however, she laid it carefully on the ground beside her flowers, and proceeded to play in the stream, with bits of bark for boats. Fudge enjoyed this too for a while, but soon he grew restless.
All at once the child became aware that the woods had grown darker; the sunlight no longer glanced in among the green boughs; through the foliage she caught a glimpse of the western sky, which was flecked with flame and beryl and amber. Next she realized that it must be a great while since dinner. With the sense of hunger came a feeling of dismay. Where was she, and how should she get home? "It must be most supper time, Fudge," she said, choking down a sob. The little dog looked up into her face with affectionate concern, and thrust his cold nose into her hand, as if to say encouragingly: "Trust me, and I will lead you back." He began to sniff the ground; and, having found the scent, endeavored to prevail upon his young mistress to follow his guidance. But Tilderee was sure that she knew best. "No, Fudge," she called; "not that way. This is the right path, I'm sure. Come quick!" Vainly the sagacious animal used all his dumb arts to induce her to rely upon him; vainly he crouched and whined, and begged her to gohisway. Tilderee obstinately stumbled on in the opposite direction. Fudge laid down and watched her despairingly for a few moments; then, with a sigh almost like that of a human being, he sprang after her. If actions speak louder than words, could he have said more plainly: "Well, if youwillget lost, I must go with you to take care of you?"
They wandered on, far beyond the source of the stream, emerged from the wood, and strayed along the side of a deep gorge or canon. At every step the surroundings grew wilder, the way more rocky and precipitous. If she had been older, what terrors would have affrighted the child! An appalling dread of the Indians, fear of the wild cattle of the wilderness, the apprehension of countless dangers. But in her baby innocence, Tilderee knew nothing of these perils. She only felt that she was weary and chilled, and faint for want of food. "Oh Fudge, if we could only get home to mother!" she moaned. "Tilderee's so tired and sleepy, and it will be dark night soon." At the thought she threw herself on the ground and began to cry bitterly.
Fudge looked disconsolate. A second he stood irresolute and distressed, but presently drew nearer, and, with unobtrusive sympathy, licked away the salt tears that rolled down her chubby cheeks. Then he roused himself, as if he comprehended that something must be done, and ran to and fro, barking with all his might, and poking about with his nose to the earth. At length he came upon a nook under a projecting rock, which seemed to promise a slight shelter from the cold night air. Perhaps it was the instinct of self-preservation which led him to attract the attention of his helpless companion to it. Several times he returned to her, looked beseechingly into her face, then ran back to the rock.
"You want me to go in there, Fudge?" she faltered at last, noticing his antics. "Well, I will. P'rhaps it'll be warmer. And I'm afraid nobody'll come now till morning."
Dispirited, Tilderee dragged herself to the refuge he had found. "I 'xpect it's time for night prayers," she said, with a tremor in her voice; "and I always say them with mother or Joan." Now she knelt upon the damp mould, made the Sign of the Cross, and, clasping her brier-scratched hands, repeated the "Our Father" and "Hail Mary" more devoutly than ever before. When she came to the special little petition at the close, "Please, God, take care of Tilderee, and keep her and Fudge out of mischief," she broke down again, and, weeping convulsively, threw her arms around the neck of her obstreperous but loyal playmate and friend, exclaiming, "Oh Fudge! if we ever get safe home we'll never be naughty again, will we?"
Yet exhausted nature stills even the cry of grief and penitence. Tilderee, moreover, felt wonderfully comforted by her prayer. To the pure heart of a child Heaven is ever "close by." From her rude asylum under the cliff the little wanderer looked across at the sky. It was clear and bright with myriad stars. Suddenly one flashed across the broad expanse, blazed from the very zenith, and sped with incredible velocity down, down, till it disappeared in the depths of the ravine. "Ah," said she, with eyes still fixed upon the spot whence had gleamed the meteor, "p'rhaps it was an angel flying down to me! I won't be afraid, 'cause I know God will take care of me." Drawing the small plaid shawl from her shoulders, she spread it over herself like a blanket; sparing a corner for Fudge, however, who stationed himself upon it, prepared to ward off all dangers from his charge. And thus she fell asleep, cheered by the presence and warmed by the breath of the faithful little dog, her sole protector, humanly speaking, in that lonely wilderness.
* * * * *
During the long night, while the searching party was scouring the country, Mrs. Prentiss remained at home, keeping a bright light in the window, a fire on the kitchen hearth, the kettle on the crane, and everything ready to gladden and revive her darling in case, as she persisted in hoping, the dear little rover should, with the aid of fudge, find her way back of her own accord. How many times she started up, thinking she heard the patter of childish feet! How many times she rushed to the door at some sound which to her eager heart seemed like a cry of "Mother!" But Joan, who now kept as close to her as Tilderee was accustomed to do, would murmur sadly, after they had listened a while: "It is only the wind or the call of a bird." At which the unhappy woman, with a great effort to be calm, would sigh: "Let us say the Rosary again." Joan, whose face was stained with tears, and her eyes swollen and red from weeping, responded as best she could between her sobs.
Poor Joan learned in those hours what a terrible punishment is that of remorse. Amid all her thoughts of Tilderee one scene was ever before her: the picture of a rosy culprit, with tangled curls and beseeching eyes, grieved at the mischief she had done, and stammering, "I'm so sorry, Joan!" And then herself, as she snatched up the doll and answered harshly: "You naughty girl! I wish you didn't live here! I wish I hadn't any little sister at all!" Well, her wish had come true: Tilderee was gone. Perhaps she would never live in the log house again. There was no "little plague" to vex or bother Joan now. The lighter chores, which were her part of the housework, could be finished twice as soon, and afterward she would have plenty of time to do as she liked: to play with and sew for Angelina, for instance. Angelina!—how she hated the very name! She never wanted even to see the doll again. Tilderee might get up a "make-believe" funeral, and bury it under the white rosebush. Yes, that would be the prettiest spot; and for old affection's sake the thing should be done properly if she came back, —ah,if! And then Joan would put her head down upon the table or a chair, whichever happened to be near, or hide her face in the folds of her apron, and cry: "WhatshallI do without Tilderee! Oh, if God will only give her back to us, I will never say a cross or angry word again!"
Dawn brought no news of the lost child, and the dreary night of suspense was succeeded by a day of anguish. At intervals the seekers sent a message back to the desolate home. Sometimes it was: "Keep up your courage; we trust all will be well." Or, "Though we have not yet found the child, please God we will soon restore her to you," and so on. But, soften it as they could, the fact remained—their expedition had been fruitless: Tilderee was still lost. They at length despaired of gaining trace or tidings of her, and agreed that it was useless to continue the search.
"She must have fallen over a precipice," maintained one of the men.
"If so, we should have met with some sign—" argued another, hesitating at the thought of what that sign might be.
"It is probable that she has been stolen by the Indians," said Lieutenant Miller, of the Fort; "and we must adopt other means to recover her."
Once more dusk was approaching, and they were about to turn back, when—hark! there was a shout from the borders of the canon beyond. A few moments before, Abe, the old scout, had disappeared in that direction. As he pressed onward he presently discovered that, in a wavering line, the brambles seemed to have been recently trodden down. A little farther on, almost hidden among the briers and dry leaves, lay a withered wild flower, like those that grew in the plain below; and farther still, caught upon a bush, was a bit of the fringe of a shawl, so small that it might have escaped any but his "hunter's eye." As he stood still, with senses alert, he heard a sound amid the brush; and, turning quickly, saw that which made him send forth the ringing halloo to his comrades. It was a little dog crawling down toward a hollow, where a spring of water gushed from the ground.
"Fudge!" he called, softly. The dog started, fawned upon him with a low whine; and, with many backward glances to make sure that he was following, led the way to a high rock which shelved inward, forming a sort of canopy above the bank. There, in the rude recess, as he felt confident would be the case, was the lost child. At first he feared she might be dead, so pale and motionless she lay; but when he whispered gently, "Tilderee!" the white eyelids fluttered, then unclosed; the dull eyes lighted up in recognition, and she smiled a wan, weak little smile. Once more Abe's cheery voice rang out, calling, "Found! found!" and the woods and cliffs made merry with the echoes. His companions hastened toward the ravine; but he met them half way, carrying the little one in his arms.
What a shout of joy greeted the sight! What a feeling of thankfulness filled each heart! Mr. Prentiss, strong man though he was, at the relaxing of the terrible tension, fainted like a woman. For a second Peter felt his brain in a whirl, then he leaped upon Twinkling Hoofs, whom he had been leading by the bridle, breathed a word in the ear of the clever mustang, and sped away like the wind, "to tell them at home." Who could describe the emotions of the fond mother when, half an hour later, she clasped her darling to her breast?
What a happy stillness reigned in the house for hours, while Tilderee was tenderly brought back from the verge of starvation! In the beginning she was too feeble to speak; but after a while Mrs. Prentiss noticed that she wanted to say something, and, bending over her, caught the tremulous words: "Oh mother, I'll never be disobedient any more!" It was then that the good woman, who, as the saying is, "had kept up" wonderfully, was overcome, and wept unrestrainedly.
As for Joan, it seemed to her that there could never be any mourning or sadness again. When she had done everything possible for Tilderee, she lavished attentions upon Fudge, and announced to him that henceforth he was to be called Fido (faithful); at which he wagged his tail, as if he found theroleof hero quite to his liking. Joan's heart was so light that she wished everyone in the world could share her happiness; but whether she laughed or chattered, or hummed a little song to herself, the refrain of all this gladness was "Oh, how good God is! How good God is!"
"Only three weeks more, Constance. Aren't you glad?" said Lillie to her little companion and neighbor as they hurried to school.
"Indeed I am. But it's so long in coming!" sighed Constance. "The days never seemed to go so slowly before."
"I have made a calendar, and every morning I cross off a date; there are already seven gone since the 1st of May," explained Lillie, with a satisfied air, as if she had discovered the secret of adding "speed to the wings of time." "We shall not have a great while to wait now."
Was it a grand holiday that our young friends were anticipating so eagerly, or the summer vacation, now drawing near? One might suppose something of the kind. But not at all. On the approaching Feast of the Ascension they were to make their First Communion; and, being convent-bred little girls, every thought and act had been directed to preparation for this great event, to which they looked forward with the artless fervor natural to innocent childhood. No one must imagine, however, that they were diminutive prudes, with long faces. Is not a girl or boy gayest when his or her heart has no burden upon it? In fact, it would have been hard to find two merrier folk, even upon this bright spring morning.
Lillie was a sprightly creature, who, somehow, always reminded Sister Agnes of one of the angels in Murillo's picture, "The Immaculate Conception,"—a lively, happy-go-lucky, rollicking angel, who plays hide-and-seek among the folds of Our Lady's mantle, and appears almost beside himself with the gladness of heaven's sunlight. Yet Lillie was by no means an angel. She had her faults of course, and these often sadly tried the patience of the good Sister. She was quick-tempered, volatile, inclined to be a trifle vain. Alas that it is so hard to keep a child's heart like a garden enclosed as with a fragrant hedge, laden with the blossoms of sweet thoughts,—safely shut in from the chilling winds of worldliness! She was lovable withal, generous, affectionate, and would make a fine woman if properly trained.
Constance, a year older, was more sedate, though with plenty of quiet fun about her. But, as a general thing, she knew when to be serious and when to play,—a bit of wisdom which Sister Agnes frequently wished she could manage to impart to the others of the band of aspirants, of whom the gentle nun had special charge.
Constance and Lillie were nearly always together. Now, as they tripped, onward, they were as happy as the birds in the trees above them, and their voices as pleasant to hear. Having turned the corner, they began to meet a company of children, who came along, sometimes in groups, again in detachments of twos and threes, all clad in white, with white veils upon their heads and floating about them as they passed joyously on, as if keeping time to the music of their own happy hearts. Poor children they were, most of them, with plain, ordinary faces, but upon which now shone a light that made one think of old sweet stories,—of St. Ursula and her throng of spotless maidens; of Genevieve, the child-shepherdess of Nanterre. Who that has ever witnessed such a scene can forget it!—this flock of fair, spotless doves amid the dust or mire of the city streets, that by their very passing bring even to the indifferent spectator a thought above gain or traffic,—a memory perhaps of guileless days and noble aspirations, as, looking up at the blue, calm sky, perchance he likens them to the snowy cloudlets that gather nearest to the sun and are irradiated by its brightness.
"Why," exclaimed Constance, "here come the first communicants of St. Joseph's parish! They must be just going home from Mass. How happy they all are, and how pretty in their white dresses!"
"They do look lovely," assented Lillie, readily. "How could they help it? And some of the dresses are nice, but surely you see, Connie, that others are made of dreadfully common material, and the veils are coarse cotton stuff."
"Well, I suppose they couldn't afford any better," returned Constance, regretfully.
"I declare there's Annie Brogan, whose mother works for us!—don't you know?" cried Lillie, darting toward a girl who had parted with several others at a cross-street and was walking on alone.
As Constance did know, she hastened to greet her, and to vie with Lillie in congratulating her. "O Annie, what a happy day for you!"—"What a favored girl you are!"—"I almost envy you!"—"We have three whole weeks to wait yet!" This is about what they said, again and again, within the next few minutes; while Annie turned from one to the other, with an added gentleness of manner, a smile upon her lips, and a more thoughtful expression in her grey eyes.
Yes, she was happy; she felt that this was indeed the most beautiful day of her life. To be almost envied, too, by such girls as Lillie Davis and Constance Hammond! This was almost incredible; and so she continued to smile at them, putting in a word now and then, while they chattered on like a pair of magpies, and all three were in perfect sympathy.
Presently Lillie chanced to glance at the little communicant's white gown, which, though fresh and dainty as loving hands could make it, was unmistakably well worn, and in some places had evidently been carefully darned; indeed, her sharp eyes discovered even a tiny tear in the skirt, as if Annie had unwittingly put her fingers through it when searching for the pocket.
"Why, Annie Brogan," she exclaimed, thoughtlessly, "you did not wear that dress to make your First Communion!"
"Yes, to be sure. Did not mother do it up nicely?" answered Annie, with naive appreciation of the patient, painstaking skill which had laid the small tucks so neatly, and fluted the thin ruffles without putting a hole through them. "And mother was saying, when she was at work on it, how thankful we ought to be to have it; since, much as she wished to buy a dress for me, she would not have been able to do so, with the rent and everything to pay; and how good your mamma was to give it to me."
"Pshaw!" rejoined Lillie. "I could have given you a dress ten times better than that if I had only remembered. Mamma just happened to put that in with a bundle of some of my last summer's clothes, which she hoped Mrs. Brogan might find useful. But she never dreamed you would wear it to-day."
"I thought it was so nice!" said Annie, coloring, while a few tears of chagrin and disappointment sprang to her eyes; somehow, a shadow seemed to have unaccountably arisen to dim the brightness of this fairest of days,—a wee bit of a shadow, felt rather than defined.
"So it is nice!" declared Constance, frowning at impulsive Lillie, to warn her that she had blundered. "It is ironed perfectly; your mother has made it look beautiful. And what a pretty veil you have!"
"Yes, I did buy that," replied Annie, in a more cheerful tone.
"Oh, it's all right! And Our Lord must have welcomed you gladly, Annie, you are so good and sweet," added Lillie. "I didn't mean any harm in noticing your dress; it was only one of my stupid speeches."
Lillie looked so sorry and vexed with herself that Annie laughed. The shadow was lifted; the children wished one another good-bye; Annie went homeward, while the others quickened their pace, fearing that they would be late for school.
But the circumstance had made an impression, especially upon Lillie; and at the noon recreation, which the first communicants spent together, she hastened to tell her companions about it.
"Just imagine!" she cried; "Annie Brogan made her First Communion this morning, and she wore an old dress of mine,—an old dress, all mended up, that mamma gave her!"
"The idea!"—"What was she thinking of?" etc., etc.; such were the exclamations with which this announcement was greeted. Most of the girls did not know in the least of whom Lillie was speaking, but it was the fact which created such a sensation.
"Why didn't she get a new one?" inquired Eugenia Dillon, a girl of a haughty disposition, who attached a great deal of importance to costly clothes.
"Hadn't any money," responded Lillie, nibbling at a delicious pickled lime which she had produced from a corner of her lunch basket.
"Then I'd wait till I had—"
"Oh, not put off your First Communion!" protested one of the group.
"Why, yes," returned Eugenia, conscious that she had scandalized them a little and trying to excuse herself. "It is not respectful or proper not to be fitly dressed for such a great occasion."
"But Annie was as neat as could be," said Constance; "and looked as pretty as a picture, too. I'm sure Our Lord was as pleased with her as if she were dressed like a princess, because she is such a good little thing."
"Come, Connie, don't preach!" objected Eugenia, impatiently. "Besides, how could she have looked pretty in a mended dress? I wish you could see the one I'm going to have! It's to be of white silk,—the best that can be got at Brown's."
"It won't be any more beautiful than mine. I'm to have tulle," saidLillie.
"And I—" continued Constance.
"Mine is to be trimmed with point-lace," broke in another.
"And I'm to wear mamma's diamonds," boasted somebody else.
"You can't," demurred a quiet girl, who had not spoken before. "Sister Agnes said that we are not to be allowed to wear jewelry or silk either; and that, though the material for the dresses may be of as fine a quality as we choose, they ought not be showy or elaborate."
"That is all very well to say," answered Eugenia. "The nuns can enforce these rules in their boarding-schools, but hardly in a day-school like this. We'll wear what we please, or what our mothers select. Mamma has decided to get the white silk for me, because so many of our friends will be present, and she wants my dress to be the handsomest of any."
This information was received without comment, but it aroused in some foolish little hearts a feeling of envy, and in others a desire of emulation.
Eugenia Dillon was the richest girl in the school. Her father, a plain, sensible man, who had lacked early advantages, had within a few years amassed a considerable fortune, which he would gladly have enjoyed in an unostentatious, unpretending manner. This, however, did not suit his wife at all. Mrs. Dillon, though a kind-hearted, charitable woman, was excessively fond of style, lavishly extravagant, and inclined to parade her wealth upon all occasions. She did not realize that the very efforts she made to attain the position in society which would have come to her naturally if she had but the patience to wait, caused her to be sneered at as aparvenuby those whose acquaintance she most desired. Unconscious of all this, she pursued her way in serene self-satisfaction,—a complacency shared by Eugenia, who delighted in the good fortune and bad taste which permitted her to wear dresses of silk or velvet to school every day in the week, and caused her to be as much admired as a little figure in a fashion-plate by those of her companions who were too unsophisticated to know that vain display is a mark of vulgarity.
"Oh children, children!" exclaimed Sister Agnes, who caught the drift of the conversation as she came into the room. "Do not be troubling your precious little heads about the fashions. We must all trust something to the good sense of your mammas that you will be suitably gowned. Certainly it is eminently fitting that one should be beautifully attired to honor the visit of the King of kings. Considered in this light, no robe could be too rich, no ornament too splendid. But, lest a small thought of vanity should creep in to spoil the exalted motive, the custom is to adopt a lovely simplicity. If you notice, we never think of the angels as weighed down with jewels. Bestow some of this anxiety upon the preparation of your hearts; see that you are clothed in the royal robes of grace; deck yourself with the jewels of virtue,—rubies for love, emeralds for hope, pearls for contrition, diamonds for faith, and purity. It was with gems like these that the holy maidens, Saints Agnes, Philomena, and Lucy, chose to adorn themselves, rather than with the contents of their trinket caskets."
Thus the nun continued to speak to the band of little girls, who had eagerly gathered around her; thus was she wont to teach them lessons of wisdom in a sprightly, gay, happy-hearted way, as if generosity, unselfishness and self-denial were the most natural traits imaginable, and the whole world fair because it is God's world, and we are all His children. Was it this spirit of joyousness which attracted young people especially to her, and gave her such an influence with them?
"Somehow, when Sister Agnes talks to me," even so flighty a little personage as Lillie Davis said one day, "I feel as if I could make any sacrifice quite as a matter of course, and without a speck of fuss about it."
"Yes," agreed Connie. "She seems to take your hand in her strong one and to lead you up a stony, hilly path; and then, when you come to the roughest, steepest places, she almost carries you onward; and you are ashamed to complain that you are tired, because, though she is so gentle with you, she does not mind such trifles at all herself—"
"She makes me think," interrupted Lillie, "of the pleasant, sunshiny breeze that comes up sometimes on a cloudy morning, and chases away the mists through which everything looks so queerly, and lets us see things as they really are."
Lillie's quaint comparison was an apt one, as was proved in the present instance.
When Sister Agnes had gone the subject which the girls had been discussing presented a different aspect, and the keynote of her character which always impressed them—"Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long,"—caused them now to feel dissatisfied with themselves and to cast about for something to do. This reminded Constance again of Annie Brogan and the white dress that Lillie had regarded with so much scorn.
"Girls," said she, "wouldn't it be nice if we could give a dress and veil, and whatever is necessary, to some poor child who is to make her First Communion on the same day as ourselves? Perhaps, too, we could arrange to have her make it with us. Don't you think this would make us happy, and be a good way to prepare?"
"It's a grand idea, Connie!" proclaimed Lillie, with ready enthusiasm.
"How could we do it?" asked the quiet girl, coming to the practical question at once.
"By giving up some of our ribbons and candies and knickknacks during the next few weeks, maybe," continued Constance earnestly, thinking it out as she went along. "Suppose we all agree to get the pretty dresses the nuns wish us to wear on that day, instead of the showy ones we want? They would not cost as much, and our mothers would, I am sure, let us use the extra money in this way."
"What! give up the white silk! Oh, I couldn't!" objected Eugenia, disconcerted. "Anyhow, I don't believe mamma would like to have me do it."
"Tulle is so lovely!" sighed Lillie. "And I never did like plain mull."
On the whole, the proposal was not received with favor. It was discussed with much animation, but the bell rang before any decision had been arrived at. Later, however, after a consultation with Sister Agnes, who promised her cordial co-operation, the children concluded to adopt Connie's suggestion, if their mothers would consent.
"I must acknowledge that I am disappointed," remarked Mrs. Davis to her husband that evening. "To-day I ordered the material for Lillie's First Communion dress,—an exquisite tulle. But she came home from school with a story about furnishing an outfit for a poor child, and she assures me that her companions are to wear plain dresses for the occasion." Thereupon the lady proceeded to give the details of the plan as she had understood it.
"A very creditable determination," said Lillie's papa, approvingly. "I endorse it heartily. If attired simply, the children will not be distracted by the thought of their gowns, while at the same time some deserving little girl will be provided with an appropriate costume. I advise you to send back the tulle by all means, my dear, and apply the difference in price between it and the fabric agreed upon to the fund the children are trying to make up."
"Well, I suppose it will be best to do so," decided his wife. "Anyhow, tulle is so delicate a tissue, and Lillie is such a heedless little creature, that it would probably be badly torn before the end of the ceremonies."
"I am sorry," soliloquized Connie's mother when she heard of the project. "Connie's First Communion will be so important an event for her that I feel as if I could not do enough in preparation for it. I should like to dress her more beautifully than on any day in her life. If she were grown and about to enter society, or if I were buying her wedding-dress, I would select the handsomest material procurable,—why not now, for an occasion so great that I ought hardly mention it in comparison? But, after all," mused she, later, "the children's arrangement is the best. I am happy that Constance is so free from frivolity, and has shown so edifying a spirit."
For Eugenia Dillon, the giving up of the white silk was, as the girls generously agreed, "the biggest act of all." At first Mrs. Dillon would not hear of it; "though," said she, "I am quite willing to buy the dress for the poor child myself, if you wish, Eugenia." But Eugenia explained that this would not do, unless she carried out the plan like the others. In fact, she found that one of the hardest things in the world is to argue against what we want very much ourselves. At last, however, her mother good-naturedly yielded the point, saying, with a laugh, "Oh, very well, child! But I never before knew you to object to having a pretty dress." And Eugenia was very sure she never had.
The great day finally arrived. To picture it, or to describe the joy which filled the soul of each of our first communicants, is not the purpose of this story. But as the white-robed band entered the convent chapel, to the incongruous throng of fashionable people there assembled their appearance was the strongest possible sermon against vanity. Their soft white gowns were as simple as the most refined taste could make them, and as beautiful; their fleecy veils enfolded them as with holy thoughts; their wreaths of spotless blossoms signified a fairer crown. They numbered seven originally, but now among them walked another. Which little girl was the stranger, however, only one mother knew,—a humble woman, who, as she knelt amid the congregation, silently invoked a blessing upon the children who by their thoughtfulness had made possible her pious desire that her child might be appropriately and respectfully attired to welcome the coming of Our Lord.
The first communicants remained at the convent till dusk. During the afternoon somebody noticed, indeed, that Eugenia's dress, though of mull like the rest, was more fanciful, and her satin sash twice as wide as that of any one else. But the discovery only caused a smile of good-humored amusement; for it was hardly to be expected that Eugenia would conform absolutely to the rule they had laid down for themselves.
After Benediction, as they prepared to go home, they said to one another: "What a truly happy day this has been! How often we shall think of it during our lives!"