I do not know exactly how long it was before Mr. Dickinson and I returned to the house, but the children were there before us, and were already telling the story of Jessie's griefs to William, who was quite as much distressed for her, and as angry with his uncle as even Mary could desire. As we entered the piazza where the children stood, I asked for Jessie.
"She has gone home," said Harriet.
"Gone home!" I repeated in surprise.
"Yes," said William, looking very boldly at his uncle, "and I think she was very right to go. I would not stay where I was scolded just for breaking a flower."
"William!" said Mrs. Temple, in surprise at his violence, for he was usually very gentle in his temper. Mr. Dickinson folded his arms and looked at him without speaking, as if he wished to hear all he had to say before answering him.
"Well, mother," said William, still trying to speak boldly, though tears were in his eyes, and he could not prevent the quivering of his lip, "I do think it was very hard that Jessie should be scolded just for saving my little sister from being hurt, or maybe killed. I am sure our little Flora is worth a great deal more than any grand Flora."
"Saved little Flora!" repeated Mr. Dickinson, "what does the child mean?" looking at me, while I turned to Mrs. Temple for an explanation.
"William is right," she answered, "in what he says, though very wrong in his manner of saying it. I am sorry Jessie has gone without my thanks, for, from the account given both by William and the nurse, she has evinced extraordinary presence of mind for so young a child, and has saved Flora from a very dangerous fall."
"Fall from what?"
"From the large flower-stand which stood near the Cactus, on a shelf of which William seated her while he came to the house for her nurse. Flora climbed to the top, and would have fallen on the flower, or worse, on the stake which supported it, had not Jessie saved her."
"And in saving her broke the flower. I see it all now," said Mr. Dickinson; "but why did not the child tell me so?"
"I tried to tell you, sir," said Mary, "in the dairy, but you would not let me."
Mr. Dickinson colored, as if he was ashamed to remember how angry he had been.
"And, Miss Mary Mackay, I think you had some intention of telling me a story; of making me believe, if Jessie had let you, that you had broken the flower; why was this?"
Mary hung her head and looked very much ashamed, but answered, "I did not mean to tell a story, Mr. Dickinson, I only meant to let you think it was I, because it was better for you to be angry with me than to be angry with Jessie."
"You only meant to let me think it was you;—and have you been so ill taught, young lady, that you do not know that in deceiving me by your looks and manner, you were as guilty of falsehood as if you had spoken it? But why would it have been better for me to be angry with you than with Jessie?"—then, without waiting for an answer, Mr. Dickinson turned to me and asked, "Did I not understand you, ma'am, that Jessie was to know nothing of your plans, that I might see how she would behave when unrestrained by any cautions?"
"I did tell you so," said I, "and was, I assure you, true to my promise."
"Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, "after Jessie had broken the flower, I was so sorry that I told her and Mary all about it."
"All about what?" asked Mr. Dickinson.
"About Aunt Kitty's wanting you to have Mr. Graham for your gardener, sir; and that I thought you would have had him, and have given him that pretty house and garden, and six hundred dollars a year, if Jessie had not hurt any thing."
"Then Jessie knew all this when she told me what she had done?"
"Yes, sir, it was this that made Mary want her to let you think she had done it; but Jessie said she should never feel happy if she did not tell you the truth, and that she was sure her grandmother would rather go away than have her tell a story."
"She is a noble little girl," said Mr. Dickinson, "and her father shall be my gardener, and have the house and garden, and six hundred dollars, and another hundred besides for Jessie's sake; and if you will excuse me, ma'am, I will order my horse and ride over to Mr. Graham's at once. I may overtake the child."
How happy Harriet looked—how Mary jumped and danced—how William, springing into his uncle's arms, kissed him, declaring he loved him better than he had ever done in his life, you may all imagine without my telling. As soon as they were still enough for me to be heard, I begged that Mrs. Temple would excuse me, and that Mr. Dickinson would order my carriage and permit me to accompany him, as I would not miss seeing Jessie's joyful surprise for any thing.
The carriage was ordered, and in a very few minutes we were on the road to Mr. Graham's. We looked eagerly at every turn for Jessie's straw bonnet and plaided gingham dress, but nothing was seen of her. As we could not overtake her, and did not wish to startle Mr. Graham's family by driving unexpectedly to his house, we determined to leave the carriage at mine and walk quietly over. We had gone but a few steps from my door when we met Mr. Graham. He colored, on seeing Mr. Dickinson, and would have turned off without stopping to speak to us. I was sure from this, he had seen Jessie and heard her story, and that he felt a little hurt that Mr. Dickinson should have been so angry with her, for an accident which she could not help. Before he could get out of our way, Mr. Dickinson was up with him and said, "Excuse me for stopping you, Mr. Graham, but I have come to apologize to your little girl for my anger to-day, which I find was very unreasonable. I was told, sir, before she came to my house, that she had been taught to be careful in a garden. I find she has been well taught in more important things. She is a noble child, sir. I shall ask her to appoint my gardener, and if she offer the place to her father I hope he will not refuse it, for I shall be pleased to have in my employment a man so well principled as I am sure he must be."
Mr. Graham was quite confused, and stood a little while looking at Mr. Dickinson, as if he did not understand him; then seizing his hand, he said in a hoarse voice, while his lip trembled like a child's, "God bless you, sir—God bless you. You have saved me from the greatest sorrow I ever had—not that I minded the money so much, sir, for thank God, I am strong yet, and could work for it again—but my mother, sir—my poor old mother, it would have killed her, sir. I always thought it would, and this morning when I summoned courage to tell her about it, though she tried to talk cheerfully, I saw she was struck down, and I knew if we went away, we should leave her behind—she would never live to go—and now, oh sir! I can only say again, God bless you!"
Mr. Graham could not say another word, for the tears came in spite of him, and covering his face with his hands, he turned away from us, as if he did not like that we should see him weep. He need not have been ashamed, for I was sobbing, and even Mr. Dickinson's voice trembled as he said, "It is your daughter you must bless, Mr. Graham; but we will leave you now, sir, for I am quite anxious to make my peace with Jessie."
We both passed on, knowing that Mr. Graham would rather be by himself while he was so agitated.
When we asked at the house for Jessie, we were told she was not there, having followed her grandmother, who, before she returned, had walked out. On inquiring in what direction they had gone, we were shown a footpath which led first across a field and then through a wood, down to a stream of water on which a saw-mill had been built many years ago. The old mill had been long out of order, and the spot where it stood was so shut in by trees, and was so still, that but for the occasional sound of a wagon rumbling over a bridge not far off, or the merry whoop of a child at play in the wood, you might have fancied, when there, that there was not another person within miles of you. Mr. Dickinson and I both knew the place well, and we walked on quite briskly, he leading the way, for the path was too narrow for even two persons to walk side by side. We were quite silent, for Mr. Dickinson never talked much, and I was engaged with my own pleasant thoughts. In less than ten minutes we came in sight of the old mill, and the open space around it. In this open space, near to the stream, one large old oak had been left standing, the roots of which grew out of the ground and then bent down into it again, so as to form quite a comfortable seat. As we came near this tree, we heard a child's voice speaking, and Mr. Dickinson, supposing that Jessie was just telling her tale to her grandmother, motioned to me to stop. As I was quite sure that Jessie would tell the simple truth, I had no hesitation in doing this. Mrs. Graham was seated on the root of which I have told you. Her face was towards the water, and she was leaning back against the body of the tree. She had brought her knitting with her, and her needles were moving as quickly and as constantly as if she had been in her parlor at home. As we stood we had a good side view of her, though she could only see us by turning quite around. As Jessie sat on the grass at her grandmother's feet, she was quite hidden from us, except the back of her head, a part of her dress, and one hand which rested on Mrs. Graham's lap. We soon found that Jessie's story must have been told before we came, for her voice ceased as I obeyed Mr. Dickinson's sign to stop, and Mrs. Graham replied to her, "Yes, Jessie, this is one of the places that I spoke to you of yesterday evening that I love so well. Many a pleasant hour have I passed with your dear grandfather under these shady trees, talking of old friends and of our home across the sea, and this morning when I heard that we were to go to a new home among strangers, I came here to mourn that I must leave it. But, Jessie, this was wrong, and now I feel it was, for while my child and my child's children are true and honest, I have much more cause to be grateful than to grieve. If we carry with us good consciences we shall find some prettiness in every place and some good in every person."
"How is that, grandmother? our goodness cannot make them pretty and good."
"It does not make them so, Jessie, but it makes us feel them to be so."
"I do not see how, grandmother."
"Look, Jessie, at the water, and tell me what you see in it."
"The blue sky and a white cloud sailing over it, and the trees on the other side—the water is so clear, grandmother, that I can see every leaf."
"Well, Jessie, when we came here last and the water was low and muddy—do you remember what you saw then?"
"I could hardly see any thing at all, grandmother, and what I did see looked black and ugly."
"And yet, Jessie, there was the same bright blue sky above, and the same green trees on the other side. Now, Jessie, there is some beauty and some goodness in every thing God has made, and he who has a pure conscience is like one looking into a clear stream; he sees it all; while to him who has a bad conscience, all things look as you say they did in the muddy stream—black and ugly."
"Now, grandmother, I know what you mean, and I know it is true too, for if I had told a story to-day, and so father had got that pretty place, I am sure I never should have liked it or thought it pretty again; and then I should have been afraid of Mr. Dickinson, and have felt as if he made me tell the story, and so I should not have liked him. But now, grandmother, I think he is a very good man, though he is a little cross sometimes, and I do not feel afraid of him at all."
"No, Jessie, those who do right are seldom afraid, for you know the Bible says, 'the righteous are as bold as a lion.' I am very glad, my child, of all that has happened to you to-day. You may have harder trials of your truth than even this before you die, but you will remember this day, and how happy you have felt for telling the truth; and you will remember, too, if all the good things on earth are offered to you as the price of one falsehood, that your old grandmother told you truth is better than all, Jessie,—truth is better than all. Will you not remember this, Jessie?"
"Yes, grandmother," said the child, in a low earnest voice.
"So may God bless you, my daughter," and Mrs. Graham laid her hand solemnly on Jessie's head.
Mr. Dickinson and I had been unwilling to interrupt this conversation, but he now stood aside that I might pass on, as he thought they would be less startled at seeing me than at seeing him. Jessie was the first to hear my step, and, turning her head quickly, to see me. She was on her feet in a moment, and said, with a bright happy smile, "Oh! I am so glad to see you, ma'am, for you will hear me, and I can tell you how it was, and then I am sure you will not be angry with me."
"I know all already, Jessie, and am only angry with myself that I should have seemed displeased with you even for a moment. No one is angry with you now, Jessie, and Mr. Dickinson has come with me to tell you himself that he is not."
"Oh! ma'am!" said Jessie, with a little start, though she had just said she did not feel at all afraid of him. She looked around and saw Mr. Dickinson already standing close beside her.
"Do not be afraid, Jessie," said he, "for, as your grandmother told you, those who do right need not fear any one. If either of us should be afraid, it is I, for I was very unjust to you in refusing to hear your excuses, when I might have known, from what had already passed, that you would have told me nothing but the truth. But I have heard all since, Jessie, and have come to make amends for my injustice."
How Mr. Dickinson was to make amends to Jessie I need not repeat to you, for you have heard it already. But Jessie's joy—this cannot be described. She was wild with delight. Her grandmother was her first thought, and as soon as she understood Mr. Dickinson, she was at her side exclaiming, "Just hear, grandmother—just hear! Father is to have that pretty place after all, and it is just by the church—and you know, grandmother, you wanted to be by the church. Oh, grandmother! do tell Mr. Dickinson how glad you are."
Mrs. Graham's gladness showed itself in a way that Jessie did not quite understand. Tears sprang to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, while yet there was a smile upon her lips; and when she attempted to speak, her voice was so choked with weeping that she could say nothing. Surprised and disappointed, Jessie turned to Mr. Dickinson, and as if to apologize for what seemed to her so strange, said, "Indeed, sir, I am sure she is very glad, though she is crying."
"I do not doubt it, Jessie," said Mr. Dickinson.
"I hope not, sir, I hope not," said Mrs. Graham, who had by this time recovered her voice; "I am both glad and thankful—first to Him," looking up to heaven, "who gave you the heart to be so kind, and then to you, sir, whom I hope God will bless for all your goodness."
Mr. Dickinson soon left us, having an engagement at home. He was to take my carriage and send Harriet and Mary, who had remained to spend the day with William, back in it. I begged that they might leave his house in time to be at home by five o'clock, and I invited Jessie to come over at that hour to meet them. I will leave you to imagine what a happy evening they passed, for though they said a great deal, and it all seemed very pleasant at the time, I doubt whether much of it would look very wise when written down. I will tell you, however, of three things which were decided upon. First—Mary Mackay promised to try to remember Mrs. Graham's lesson to Jessie, that "truth is better than all," especially as Jessie assured her that she had found it so; for that even before she knew of Mr. Dickinson's kind intentions, she had felt quite happy at having told the truth—happier a great deal than any thing could have made her which she had gotten by telling a story. Next, that Jessie was to have Mooly back again, Harriet having begged her of me as a present for her friend. Last, that when Mr. Graham had moved, Harriet and Mary, and two or three other little girls, of whom the first named was "Blind Alice,"[1]were to spend an evening with Jessie.
[1]See the story of Blind Alice, by Aunt Kitty.
[1]See the story of Blind Alice, by Aunt Kitty.
It was the first week in September before Mr. Graham moved, and the beginning of the second before his family were so settled as that Jessie could fulfil her promise of an evening's entertainment to her young friends. They were all invited the day before to come at four o'clock, that they might have an hour to see all the beauties which Jessie had discovered, and all the improvements which she had made in her new home, and then, taking tea at five o'clock, might all be at their homes again before the evening became chill. I had a whispered request from Jessie, that though there were to be no grown ladies there, I would just come with the children; a request which you may suppose I did not refuse. When the afternoon came, I took Mary and Alice and two other little girls with me in the carriage, while Harriet rode her own pony. Jessie was waiting in the piazza to welcome us, and William Temple stood gallantly ready to help us from the carriage; and before the hour was gone, every nook and corner of the poultry-yard and garden had been explored. They were both in very nice order, and Alice, as Jessie led her around the garden, was constantly exclaiming, "How delightful!" while she inhaled the perfume of roses and pinks, and honeysuckles and jessamines. It was too late for strawberries or raspberries, but when this garden was made, Mr. Dickinson had had some fine peach and pear trees set in it, and these were now covered with ripe fruit, and from the grape-vine hung large clusters of the rich purple grape. The table for the children was spread under the grape-arbor, and when at five o'clock they were called to it, they found,—not cakes and sweetmeats and tea,—but a dish of warm, light biscuits, of Mrs. Graham's own making—a bowl of soft peaches with cream and sugar—baskets of pears and grapes, and a cup of Mooly's rich milk for each child. The sun was low, and only a few of its rays found their way through the reddish-colored grape-leaves into the arbor; and, sure I am, those rays never fell upon a happier group. They were still enjoying their feast, when hearing some one speak to Mr. Graham, who was busy propping up an overloaded branch of a pear-tree, I looked around and saw Mrs. Temple and Mr. Dickinson with Flora Temple in his arms, coming towards the arbor.
"Mr. Graham," I heard Mr. Dickinson say, "why have you not taken your little visiters through the other garden?"
"Why, sir," said Mr. Graham, "though they are all very good children, they are not just as used to gardens as Jessie, and they might be careless—but if you would let me, I would like to take that poor blind child through the green-house, for she is so fond of flowers, and I doubt if she ever smelt a lemon blossom."
"Certainly, Mr. Graham, I shall be pleased to have you take her."
Mrs. Temple took Flora from her brother and joined the little party under the arbor, while Mr. Dickinson remained outside, seemingly engaged with Mr. Graham, but I suspect much more attentive to the merry voices of the children. At length William called him in, and I am sure no one who saw him then for the first time would have called him "the cross Mr. Dickinson." I said this to old Mrs. Graham, and her reply was, "Nothing, I think, ma'am, makes people so pleasant and good-humored as seeing happy faces,—especially when they know, as Mr. Dickinson does, that they made the happiness."
Our party separated in good time, but not before Mr. Graham had taken Alice to the green-house. She went with him, not knowing where he was taking her, and was so delighted with the strange perfume, and so curious to know from what it came, that Mr. Dickinson, who had followed them, cut off a cluster of flowers from a lemon-tree for her. After this, the highest expression of satisfaction with any thing which Alice ever gave, was to say, "It is almost as pleasant as Mr. Dickinson's green-house."
When William was leading me to the carriage, he begged me to put my head down, as he wanted to tell me a secret. I did so, and he whispered, "I am coming to spend Christmas with my uncle, and I told him I wanted to see a play acted, for I never saw one; and he says I shall see one then and act in it too, and he will write it himself, and it is to be called, "All for Truth, or the Flower well Lost."
That I shall have an invitation to see this play I have little doubt; so my next story for you may be of Christmas merry-making at Flowerhill—at the cross Mr. Dickinson's. Let this teach my little readers, that if children are good and pleasant themselves, they will seldom find any one cross to them long.
When last I took leave of my young friends, it was autumn, and we were looking forward to Christmas entertainments at Flowerhill, where a play written by Mr. Dickinson himself was to be acted. Those of you who have read Jessie Graham, may remember that I thought it probable my next story for you would be of these entertainments.
Mr. Dickinson kept his promise. The play was written; and a fortnight before Christmas, came William Temple, full of joyful expectation. The day after his arrival he rode over with his uncle to see me, and to invite Harriet and Mary to be at Flowerhill the next morning, to hear the play read, and to receive their parts, for parts they were both to have. Soon after Mr. Dickinson and William left us, the sky was overcast with heavy clouds, which, as evening approached, became more and more wild and dark. I predicted a snow-storm, and Harriet and Mary went to sleep with little hope of being able to fulfil their engagement.
The snow-storm came, but it lasted only a few hours of the night, and the next morning's sun rose clear and bright. Bright indeed, dazzlingly bright, as its rays fell on the pure, white snow with which the whole ground was covered, or shone through the icicles, with which every tree was hung, making them look like glittering diamonds, in each of which there seemed a tiny rainbow.
I had ordered the carriage at an early hour, and we had scarcely breakfasted when the merry jingle of the sleigh-bells told that it was at the door. Even the horses seemed gayer than usual, and whirled us along so rapidly, that had not the reins been in the hands of Henry, whom I knew to be the steadiest and most careful coachman in the country, I should have been half frightened. William saw us from the parlor window, and had the door open for us as soon as we were out of the sleigh. We were just cold enough to enjoy the warm parlor; and as we drew close to the blazing wood fire, Mary exclaimed, "Aunt Kitty, do you not wish it was always winter?"
"No, Mary, for I love spring flowers and summer and autumn fruits."
"Oh! I had forgotten them," said Mary, "but I am very glad there is a winter too."
"So am I, Mary, very glad, and very thankful to Him who gives us the varying pleasures which make each season welcome."
We were interrupted by Mr. Dickinson, who came in with the play. He read it for us, and I am sure no play was ever heard with more pleasure. Harriet and Mary received their parts, and were now quite impatient to get home, that they might begin to study them.
This pleasant morning visit was all which I saw of the Christmas entertainments at Flowerhill, for on my return home, I found a carriage waiting for me, and a letter requesting me to come to a very dear friend, who was both ill and in trouble, and needed a nurse and a comforter. You may be sure that I made no delay in complying with this request; but before I tell you any thing of my visit, I would give you some account of my friend, Mrs. Arnott, and of her daughter Florence, as she had appeared to me about eighteen months before, when I had spent some weeks with her mother under very different circumstances.
Mrs. Arnott was younger than I, yet not so much younger but that we had been playmates in childhood. As we grew older we continued warm friends. When she married, I rejoiced in her happy prospects, and found but one thing in Mr. Arnott I would have desired to change—he lived thirty miles from me, and this was felt as a wide separation between friends who had been accustomed to meet every day. I soon found that the separation was to be much greater. Mr. Arnott liked travelling, had a large fortune, and little to do. He took his wife to England; and after travelling in England, Scotland, and Wales, they passed over to the continent of Europe, and having seen whatever was of most interest in France, Switzerland, and Germany, went into Italy, and spent more than a year in the city of Florence. Here their little girl was born, and received her name in remembrance of a home which they had found very agreeable. When Florence was about two years old, her father and mother returned to America. They came in the autumn, and joyfully as I welcomed back my friend, I soon began to fear that she would not be able to spend many winters with us. Her constitution had always been delicate, and her long abode in the soft, warm climate of Italy, seemed to have unfitted her completely for the endurance of our rough and cold northern winters. The first winter she went out very seldom, the second not at all, and the third she showed symptoms of serious illness so early, that her physician advised Mr. Arnott to take her at once to a more southern climate. They went to Florida, and their delightful country place was again let for several years, while they spent their winters at the south and their summers in travelling through the middle and northern states.
In this way, Mrs. Arnott seemed gradually to acquire more vigorous health, yet it was not till Florence was more than ten years old, that they returned to their own home with some hope of being able to remain at it during the whole year. As soon as they began to feel themselves settled, Mrs. Arnott wrote to ask a visit from me, requesting that I would bring my nieces, Harriet Armand and Mary Mackay, with me. She was very urgent in this last request, saying, that she hoped to benefit her little Florence by the society of children of nearly her own age, who had been as carefully educated as she knew Harriet and Mary had been. I will copy for you a part of my friend's letter, from which I gained some knowledge of the disposition of Florence, even before I made this visit.
"You will soon see," wrote Mrs. Arnott, "that my little girl's education has been sadly neglected. By her education, I do not mean what is ordinarily taught in schools. Wherever we have made our home, even for a few months, we have procured for her the best teachers we could find, and as she is a child of quick mind, she is quite as well informed as most children of her age. But to the education of herheart, which I know you will think with me of far more importance, no attention has been paid. Her father's extreme indulgence to this only child, my feeble health, and our roving life, have left her so unrestrained, that I begin to fear she is becoming very self-willed. Yet her temper is naturally so amiable, and her feelings so affectionate, she is so anxious to please those she loves, and so grieved at the least appearance of blame from them, that I hope it will not be difficult to correct her faults."
As I felt much interested in this little girl, and thought, with her mother, that the association with other and more carefully taught children might be serviceable to her, I determined at once to accept the invitation for Harriet and myself, and if my brother and Mrs. Mackay would consent, for Mary too. Indeed, I hoped more advantage for Florence from the companionship of Mary than of Harriet. Harriet was so gentle, and would yield to her young friend so quietly, that Florence would seldom discover from her how much she was yielding, and how unreasonable her own exactions were. But Mary had a strong will, and though she had been taught that she must on many occasions submit to the will of others, it was always done with a very great effort. I was quite sure, therefore, that Florence would know whenever Mary yielded a point to her, and moreover, that she would be very plainly informed if Mary thought her demands unreasonable.
Mr. and Mrs. Mackay readily consented that Mary should go with me, and Mary was always pleased with the prospect of a visit, especially if the visit could be made with Harriet and Aunt Kitty. Of my designs for the improvement of Florence, I did not, of course, say any thing to either of my nieces.
Our visit was made in June, when it was too warm to travel in midday, so, rising very early, we were five miles from home before the sun rose; and before it became uncomfortably warm, had gone seventeen miles, to a little village where we were to dine, rest our horses, and remain quiet till the afternoon became cool, when fourteen miles more of travelling would bring us to Mr. Arnott's. We arrived there just about sunset. Florence was playing on the green before the door with a little dog, which ran jumping and barking beside her, when the carriage swept round a turn of the road, which brought us in sight of the house.
Florence had travelled too much, and been, therefore, too much accustomed to new faces, to run away from us, even had we been strangers, and we were not strangers, for she had seen us all in the preceding summer, when her mother had made a visit of a few days in our neighborhood; so, instead of running away, she called out, on seeing us, "Papa, mamma, here they come!" and opening the gate, stood ready to receive us, with a face full of smiles.
Bed-time soon follows sunset in summer, at least for children. Yet it came not too soon this evening for Harriet and Mary, who were tired by their thirty miles travelling. But Florence thought it very unkind in them to leave her so soon "this first evening." Her entreaties were so urgent that they would stay a little while longer, that her young companions would have found some difficulty in getting away without aid from me. Taking Florence's hand, as she was endeavoring to hold Harriet and Mary back from following the servant, who was going to show them their bed, I said, "Did you hear me tell those little girls that they must go to bed?"
"Yes," she replied; "but they have been here such a little time, and it is so early yet; I only want them to stay a little longer."
"I do not doubt they would try to oblige you, though they are tired and sleepy, but they are accustomed to do just as I wish them; and I wish them to go to bed at once. You will have a long summer's day for talk and play to-morrow, and only a short summer's night for sleep. So now bid them good-night; and I think you had better go too, for I shall call you up very early in the morning, as I expect you to show me the garden and the dairy before breakfast."
"And the fish-pond, too," said Florence, "the fish-pond, too."
"Is there a fish-pond, too? Well, all these will require us to rise early,—shall I bid you good-night, too?"
"Yes; I may as well go," said she, looking around and seeing that Harriet and Mary were already gone.
So closed the first evening of our visit.
The morning was cloudless, and the garden looked beautifully, with its leaves and flowers glittering with dew-drops. But I only saw it from my window, for though Harriet and Mary, starting from sleep at the first sound of my voice, sprang eagerly up, and, dressing in haste, waited impatiently for the tap of Florence, which was to summon us to our morning walk; they waited in vain. Florence could not be awoke, or when awake, could not be induced to rise; and breakfast was announced, and we were all seated at table before she made her appearance. She looked far more discontented and dull than those whom she had disappointed. This did not surprise me, for I knew she could not feel very well pleased with herself; and those who are not, are seldom pleased with others.
"Well, Florence," said her father, "so you have slept so long that your friends have lost this fine morning in waiting for you, and have seen nothing of all you promised last evening to show them."
Florence colored, hung her head, and replied in rather a sulky tone, "I could not wake myself."
"No," said Mr. Arnott, "but—"
"Come, Mr. Arnott," said I, interrupting him, "the disappointment is past—we have many other pleasures in store for to-day, we can afford to postpone this one; and I doubt not Florence will be ready in time to-morrow. To secure it I will call her myself. May I, Florence?"
She looked pleased, and replied promptly, "Yes, ma'am."
I had two reasons for interrupting Mr. Arnott. One was, I thought Florence was already so much grieved and disappointed that it was useless to distress her farther. Another, and perhaps a more important reason was, that I wished to serve this little girl by helping her to correct her faults; and I felt that in order to be able to do this, it was quite necessary that she should learn to love me, to place confidence in my kindness, and take pleasure in my society. Now you will readily see that she would not be likely to do any of these things, if through me she were made to feel uncomfortably.
After breakfast, Mr. Arnott invited the children to take a walk with him, adding, "I have something to show you, which even Florence has not seen."
"Which I have not seen? What can it be? Do, papa, tell me what it is," said Florence, coming back from the door, which she had reached on her way for her bonnet.
"You will know in a few minutes," said Mr. Arnott, "that is, if you will put on your bonnet and come with me, instead of keeping us all waiting. See, Harriet and Mary are ready," pointing to them as they now entered the parlor.
Florence ran off for her bonnet, saying, however, as she went, "I will ask nursey—if she knows, I am sure she will tell me."
"She does not know," Mr. Arnott called out.
As I love pleasant surprises, especially when children are to enjoy the pleasure, this little mystery was a temptation to join the walkers too strong for me to resist, so before Florence came back, I was ready too, and went off as full of curiosity and pleased expectation as any of the party. Mr. Arnott led us through the garden into the orchard beyond it. As we entered the garden, Florence said, "Now I know what it is, papa—you are going to show us a new flower."
"Indeed, I am not, Florence."
As we passed into the orchard, she suddenly exclaimed, "Now I have it, papa, now I have it; the cherries we were looking at the other day are ripe, and you are going to get us some."
Her father smiled, but said nothing.
"That is it, papa, is it not?"
"Wait a few minutes, Florence, and you will see."
"Well, I give it up, now, for we have passed all the cherry-trees."
Mr. Arnott turned towards a wood which skirted the orchard on the north, and long before we reached it the secret was told; for, on the stoutest branch of a magnificent oak, which he had, by removing his fence, enclosed within the orchard, hung a swing—a new and strongly made swing, with a very comfortable seat. We all quickened our pace as we came in sight of it, and many were the exclamations of admiration and delight from the children.
"Such a beautiful swing, under such a cool, shady tree, how delightful!"
Florence jumped, danced, clapped her hands, and at length darted off, and, bounding into the swing, called to her father, "Come quick, quick, papa, and swing me."
"After I have swung your friends, my dear."
Florence looked disappointed, and both Harriet and Mary drew back, saying, "Oh no, sir! Swing Florence first."
Mr. Arnott saw that to persist in his politeness would distress them, so saying, "I will swing you twelve times, Florence," he touched the swing, and away it rose, rapidly yet steadily, through the air, higher and higher each time, till, as Mr. Arnott counted twelve, Florence shrieked, half with fear and half with delight. Mr. Arnott caught the swing as it descended, and stopped it.
"Oh papa! is that twelve?"
"Yes, Florence; did you not hear me count?"
"Well, just once more, papa."
Mr. Arnott stooped and whispered to her—she reddened, and getting down slowly, said, "Now, Harriet, you get in."
Harriet got in, and counting for herself, sprang out as the swing descended for the twelfth time. Mary had her turn, and looked so well pleased, that, had her father been in Mr. Arnott's place, she would, I doubt not, have said, like Florence, "Just once more, papa." As she came out Florence again sprang in.
"Now, papa, once, only once—or twice," she added, as her father extended his arm at her entreaty.
But after giving one toss to the swing, Mr. Arnott turned resolutely away, saying, "You are never satisfied, Florence, but I will not indulge you any farther this morning, for the sun is getting too warm for any of you to be here longer—in the cool of the evening we will try it again."
Florence looked not very well pleased, but as we all turned towards the house, she came out and followed us.
I do not intend to give you a history of what was done by the children each day of our visit, for this would make a very long story. When it was fine weather they helped the gardener, astheysaid, or hindered him, ashesometimes complained—walked in the orchard, looking for ripe fruit—or swung, and on a cool evening Mr. Arnott would sometimes take them out on the river in a pretty little sailing boat, or drive them two or thee miles in a light, open carriage. When it rained, they overhauled Florence's toys, of which there were trunks full, or amused themselves with her books. They seemed to agree very well, at least we heard of no disagreements, though I fancied, towards the latter part of our stay, that I sometimes saw a cloud on Mary's brow, but I asked no questions, and it passed off without any complaint.
One afternoon, when we had been there about a week, as Mr. and Mrs. Arnott and I were seated in the piazza enjoying the pleasant breeze, the children rushed in from the garden, seeming very anxious to give us some information, which, as each tried to speak louder than the others, it was quite impossible for some time for us to understand. At length, by hearing a little from each, we made out that there were ripe strawberries in the neighborhood—really ripe—for the gardener had seen them, and he said they were as large around as his thumb.
"And you want me to send for some," Mr. Arnott began,—but, "Oh no, papa!" "Oh no, sir!" every voice again exclaimed, "we want to go for them."
"Go for them!—and pray, young ladies, how will you go?—am I to drive you?"
"Oh no, papa! we want to walk; and Andrew"—this was the name of Mr. Arnott's gardener—"says they will let us go into the garden and pick them ourselves—and you know, mamma, Eliza can go with us and carry our baskets," added Florence, anticipating her mother's objection to their going without some attendant to a place a mile off.
And so it was arranged, and in a few minutes they set out, Eliza carrying the baskets, and each taking a shilling to pay for her berries. It seems they had gone only about half-way, when they met a poor woman with a sick child in her arms, sitting to rest herself in the shade by the side of the road. The woman looked so pale and sad that the servant, Eliza, who was a kind-hearted girl, spoke to her, and asked what was the matter?
"Sick and weary," said the poor woman.
"But how did you come to be in the road here by yourself?—and where are you going?" asked Florence.
"Why you see, Miss, I have been to the city, where a great many people told me that I might make twice as much money without slaving myself to death, as I was doing, for the children; and so I took this baby and went; but the baby fell sick, and indeed I think the city air did not suit either of us, for I fell sick too, and could not work at all, and I longed so to get home and smell the country air, and see the other children and friends' faces, instead of strangers, strangers always, that, as soon as I could walk, I set out, and thank God, I have got only eight miles more to walk, for I live at M——."
"But why do you walk?" asked the children.
"Ah, young ladies, poor folks that have not any money to pay for rides, must walk. As long as my money held out I got a ride on a cart now and then for a sixpence, or a shilling, and that was a great help; but I have not even a sixpence left now to buy a bit of bread if I was ever so hungry."
In a moment Harriet's shilling was in the poor woman's hand; Mary's followed. She burst into tears, and thanked them again and again. Florence looked at her shilling, then at the woman, and said, "I have half a dollar at home, and that is four times as much as a shilling, you know, and if you will wait here till I have got the strawberries I am going for, you can go back with me and I will give you that."
"Thank you, my dear young lady," said the poor creature, "but I hope to get home this evening, and that I shall not do if I stop and go back on my way—yet," she added, "half a dollar is a great deal. I wish I were not so tired."
"Florence," cried Harriet and Mary, both at once, "I will go back for the money if you will tell me where it is, and the poor woman can rest here till I come back."
"My good woman," said Eliza, "you are not fit to walk or even to ride eight miles to-night. Now our gardener's wife has a spare room in her house, and she is a kind woman, and will do every thing she can to make you comfortable; and to-morrow morning, I dare say, the gardener can get you a lift on some farmer's cart all the way to M. So now, instead of waiting here, you had better go back at once, and Miss Florence can give you the half dollar when she comes home."
"Yes, I will give you the half dollar," said Florence, "and that," she repeated, turning to Mary, "is four times as much as a shilling, you know."
So it was arranged—the woman went back—the gardener's wife accommodated her—the gardener found a farmer going to M. the next morning, who promised to take her there on his cart—and when Florence came home she gave her the half dollar, which, being four times as much as a shilling, evidently made her, in her own opinion, and in Mary's too, four times as generous as Harriet or herself.
A few days after the events related in the last chapter, Mary came into my room to show me a basket and a doll's dress which Florence had given her. They were neither of them quite new, but they were not at all the worse for wear, and Mary was quite delighted with them, and with Florence for giving them. "Aunt Kitty, I do love Florence," said she, "she is so generous."
"Is she, my dear?" said I, in a very quiet tone.
"Why yes, Aunt Kitty, do you not see what she has given me?—and she has a book for Harriet, a very pretty book, which she means to give her when she is going away,—and she gives away money; you know she gave half a dollar to that poor woman the other day."
"All this, Mary, does not prove that Florence is generous."
"Well, I do not see, Aunt Kitty, how anybody can be more generous than to give away their playthings, and their books, and their money."
At this moment Harriet entered the room. Mary, from thinking that I was opposed to her in opinion, had become very much in earnest on the subject, and she called out, "I am very glad you are come, Harriet. Only think, Aunt Kitty does not think Florence is generous. Now Harriet, is she not generous—is she not very generous?"
"I do not know, Mary,—sometimes she is, but I did not think she was the other day, when she would not give her ripe plum to that poor sick child who wanted it so much."
Mary colored; "But, Harriet, I am sure the wooden horse she gave him was worth more than a dozen plums."
"I dare say it was, Mary, but the child did not want that."
Mary became now a little angry, as she was apt to do when she could not convince those with whom she was arguing.
"Well, Harriet, I think it is very unkind in you to speak so of Florence, and to say she is not generous, when she thinks so much of you."
"Stop, stop, Mary," said I, "you are now as unjust to Harriet as you accuse her of being to Florence. She did not say that Florence was not generous, but only that she had not made up her mind on that subject, that she had not seen enough to convince her that she was; and this, remember, was all which I said. Florence may be as generous as you think her, but you have not told me enough to convince me of it. When we have known her longer we shall all be able to judge better what she is. In the mean time I am very glad you like her, for I am very much interested in her myself."
"Well, Aunt Kitty, I do like her," said Mary, in a very energetic manner, "and I am sure I shall never be any better able to judge her than I am now."
I made no reply, and the conversation ended.
Mary did not forget it, however, nor feel quite satisfied with its termination, for the next morning, as I was sitting in my room alone, she came in, and after moving about a little while, seated herself by me and said, "Aunt Kitty, I want to ask you a question."
"Well, my dear, what is it?"
"I want to know when you do think a person is generous?"
"A person is generous, Mary, when he gives up his own gratification or advantage for the gratification or advantage of another."
"Well, that was what I always thought, Aunt Kitty—and now I am sure a little girl does that when she gives away her books and her playthings, and her money, does she not?"
"When a little girl becomes tired of books and playthings, Mary, they cease to amuse her, do they not?"
"Yes, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, "if she get tired of them,—but I never get tired of books and playthings if they are pretty."
"Perhaps you may not, my dear," I replied, "but some other little girls do, and those little girls are most apt to do so who have the greatest number of such things. Now, should they give away those of which they are tired—which had ceased to amuse them—could you say they had given up a gratification?"
"No, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, speaking very slowly, for she was beginning to understand my meaning.
"Then this would not be what we mean by being generous?"
"No, Aunt Kitty,—but money—you know nobody gets tired of money—suppose a little girl givesthat."
"Well, Mary, suppose she gives money, and that she knows when giving it that some kind friend will replace it, or indeed, give her a yet larger sum to encourage what he thinks a good feeling—could you say she hadgiven upa gratification—would this prove her to be very generous?"
As I asked this question I looked in Mary's face with a smile,—the smile she gave me in return was plainly forced.
After waiting a moment, during which she seemed to be thinking very deeply, she spoke again. "Well, Aunt Kitty, but suppose she is not tired of the books and playthings, and does not expect to get the money back?"
Mary felt quite sure of her ground now, and looked steadily in my face. "Then, Mary, she would be a generous girl, provided she did not expect to receive in exchange for her gift some otherselfishgratification or advantage which she valued yet more highly."
Again Mary was silent and thoughtful for a while, then said, "Why, Aunt Kitty, I heard my father say once, when he gave some money to help some poor sick soldiers, that it was a great gratification to him; did that make him not generous?"
"No, no, Mary, for that was not aselfishgratification. That gratification was caused by the good which he knew the money would do them,—but if your father had given it for the praise which he expected to receive for so doing, or if he had done it to please persons from whom he hoped afterwards to receive some other favor in return—would he have been generous, do you think?"
"No, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, promptly.
"I think, Mary, you are now beginning to understand fully what generosity is. Remember, to be generous, you must not only give up something—but it must be something you value—something which is a gratification or advantage to you—and you must give it up for the gratification or advantage of another. Ignorant or thoughtless people sometimes call a person generous because he is careless of money, and throws it away on foolish, useless things; do you think him so?"
"No, Aunt Kitty."
"And why not, my dear?" Mary hesitated. "I have been teaching you a useful lesson, Mary," said I, "and I would see if you have learned it well,—tell me, then, why you would not think such a person generous."
"Because, Aunt Kitty, what he gives up is not for the gratification or advantage of another."
"Right, my love, you have learned your lesson well, and will, I hope, often put it in practice."
At this moment, Harriet put her head into the room, calling out, "Mary, do come and see how Florence has dressed up Rover."
Rover was the name of a dog which had been lately given to Florence, and which was a great pet with her. Away ran Mary—all her grave thoughts quite forgotten for the present.
Though Mrs. Arnott's health was, as I have said, so much improved that she now hoped to be able to remain through the winter at her own home, Mr. Arnott was desirous that she should spend some weeks of the summer at the warm springs of Virginia, from the waters of which she had always seemed to derive great benefit. Mrs. Arnott was quite willing to do any thing by which she might hope that her health would continue to improve, but she acknowledged to me that the idea of taking Florence there distressed her.
"Since I have been at home," she said, "and have been able to observe closely my child's habits and temper, I see much reason to fear that she has already suffered greatly from the careless indulgence which can scarcely be avoided when we are always surrounded by strangers. She is now almost eleven years old, and I feel there is no time to be lost in endeavoring to correct the faults of her character, and that this can only be done by a degree of watchfulness, and of steady, yet gentle control, which I know from experience it is impossible to exercise either in travelling or at a crowded watering-place."
"Why should you take Florence with you?" I asked.
"What else can I do with her?"
"Send her home with me. You will not be gone, Mr. Arnott says, more than six weeks. For an object so important as your child's improvement, you will not, I am sure, my dear friend, hesitate to separate yourself from her for so short a time. You know nothing pleases me more than to surround myself with children; and though I acknowledge there is no teacher like a mother, when the choice lies between a mother at a watering-place, and—"
"There is no room to hesitate," said Mrs. Arnott, interrupting me: "I should rejoice to have Florence with you even were I to remain at home; and if I can win her consent, your invitation will be gladly and thankfully accepted, for of her father's wishes I have not a doubt."
"Well," said I, "you will remember that I leave you in two days, so that you have little time to lose in deciding."
"To-morrow," said Mrs. Arnott, "to-morrow I will speak to Florence; then if she give her consent, there will be no time for change."
The morrow came, and when I met Mr. Arnott, he said to me in a low voice, which was unheard by any other person, "I am very much obliged to you for your offer to relieve us and benefit our little daughter, for a great benefit I am sure it will be to Florence to be placed with other children, and under what I know will be your kind and gentle, yet firm influence."
Mrs. Arnott looked pale and sad, and complained of a bad headache. As I saw her look tenderly at Florence, and heard how her voice softened in speaking to her, I knew what caused both her headache and her paleness. It was the thought of parting with her child for the first time in her life. The separation would, I knew, be very painful to this fond mother; but I also knew that she would willingly bear the pain to herself, for the advantage which she hoped Florence would derive from it.
After breakfast, Mrs. Arnott and I passed into another room, where we had been accustomed to spend the morning, because it was at that time of the day shaded and cool. We had scarcely entered when the three children passed the window near which we sat. They seemed very merry, amusing themselves with the wonderful but awkward efforts made by Rover to catch an elastic ball that Florence was tossing up.
Mrs. Arnott called Florence.
"What is it, mamma?" said she, scarcely stopping from her play long enough to look around.
"Come here, my daughter, I have something to say to you."
Florence came to the window.
"No, Florence, you must come in, I want to talk to you a little."
For a moment Florence's countenance was clouded; but it was only for a moment, when, laughing, she cried out, "Here, Rover, here, sir—come in with me, Rover, for mamma wants to talk to me, and while she is talking you can be playing ball,"—and she came racing in, Rover at her heels, and Harriet and Mary following to see the fun.
Mrs. Arnott pressed her hand to her forehead, and I saw that all this uproar increased her headache, but it was impossible for several seconds to make the children hear us. At length I succeeded in silencing Harriet and Mary, and in making Florence understand that the noise gave her mother pain, and that she had better send Rover out.
"Does mamma's head ache?" she said; "I am sorry for it—but just see Rover, mamma, try to catch this ball—just see him once—do, mamma—that can't hurt you, I am sure, and it is so funny."
Before I could remonstrate, or Mrs. Arnott could refuse, if she intended to refuse, the ball was thrown. Again Rover, who had been watching every movement of Florence, was barking, leaping, and turning somersets in the air; and again the children were laughing, Florence as loudly as ever, and Harriet and Mary with quite as much enjoyment, though a little less noise. As I found speaking of little use, I stepped up quietly to the merry group, and, catching the ball as it rebounded from the floor, put a stop at once to their mirth and Rover's efforts.
"Now, my dear," said I to Florence, "your mother wants to speak a few words to you, so sit down quietly by her while I take Rover out, for she is in too much pain to be amused by him."
Florence looked surprised, and for a moment not very well pleased, but as she found that I spoke gently and pleasantly to the dog, and praised his beauty, while he ran good-humoredly by my side, rubbing his curly head against me, her countenance brightened, and she seated herself without any objection. I beckoned to Harriet and Mary to follow me, and when we were out of the room, I gave Rover and the ball into their charge. Telling them to wait in the piazza for Florence, and obtaining from them a promise that they would be very quiet, I returned. I had left the door of the room open, and as I reached it, I heard Florence say, "Oh no, mamma! I had a great deal rather go to the Springs with you and papa." At this moment she heard my step, and turning, looked quite confused as her eye met mine.
"Do not be ashamed, Florence," said I, "that I should have heard you. I should be sorry if you did not love your papa and mamma well enough to prefer their company to mine; but I hope you love them so well that you will do cheerfully what is not quite so pleasant to yourself, when you are told that it will please them." Florence hung her head, looked very grave, and said nothing. "Speak, Florence," said I, "would you not be willing, for your mother's sake, to do what might not be very pleasant to yourself?"
After a little hesitation, Florence, without raising her head, said in a dissatisfied tone, "I don't see what good it could do mamma for me to go where I do not want to go."
I would have told Florence of her mother's delicate health, and of how much more benefit she would probably receive from travelling if she could be free from care; but Mrs. Arnott, seeming to think there was little hope of influencing Florence in this way, interrupted me, saying, "But, my love, why should you not wish to go home with Harriet and Mary? You know how much you enjoyed your visit of two or three days to them last summer,—and Harriet has since then got a pony—you might ride on horseback if you went now."
"Will she let me ride him?" asked Florence, looking up at me with sudden animation.
"I am sure she will," I replied.
"And may I carry Rover?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, I will go, for I should like to ride on horseback; and then, mamma, I'll have Rover with me, and how odd it will be to see him jumping up and trying to get to me on the horse, just as he tried to-day to catch the ball," and she laughed out, and was again all smiles and good-humor.
The consent of Florence having been obtained, the preparations for her visit were soon completed, and as we set out before the sun had risen on the following morning, there was, as Mrs. Arnott had said, no time for her to change her mind.
Florence could not but love her kind and gentle mother dearly, and I did not wonder to see the tears start as she bade her good-by; but Rover was to be looked after—the wild-flowers with which the road was lined were to be admired—the rising sun was to be seen—and amidst all these, Florence soon forgot to be sad.
I have nothing strange to tell you of our journey. Mary's father and mother were expecting us, and we arrived in time to take tea with them, sending the carriage home with our trunks. After tea, I walked home with Harriet and Florence, while Rover gambolled along as gayly as if he had had no travelling that day.
The next morning there was no difficulty in getting Florence up, for she was so impatient to mount the pony, that I could scarcely persuade her to wait till I was dressed and able to go with her and witness her first lesson in horsemanship. Pony was so gentle that I felt there was little danger in trusting her on him, and so delighted was she with her new amusement, that she rode wherever she went, and I think Harriet was only twice on horseback during her visit, and one of these rides was not taken for her own pleasure. They seldom went out without me, but one morning when I was very much engaged, Mary came over to say, that her governess having gone on a visit to a sick friend, from which she would not return for two days, her mother had given her permission to invite her young friends in the neighborhood to spend the next day with her, and as she was going this morning to give her invitations herself, she wished Florence and Harriet to go with her. Florence was quite ready to go, provided she could ride; so pony was saddled, and as I knew where they were going, and felt there was really no danger in the way, I allowed them to go without me, sending with them, however, a servant whom I knew to be careful and discreet. Gay, laughing and chatting, they set out. The farthest house to which Mary intended extending her invitations was only three quarters of a mile distant, yet as she had several calls to make, I did not expect them to return under an hour and a half, or perhaps two hours. Greatly surprised was I, therefore, when in about half an hour I heard tones which seemed to me very like Mary's, but not gay and laughing, as I had last heard them. Then came a few words from Florence, and there was no mistaking the fact, that her voice was decidedly sulky. Mary was already in the piazza, when, laying aside my work, I approached the window. Harriet was not with her, nor was Florence in sight. With some alarm I inquired, "Where are Harriet and Florence?"
"Florence has rode to the stable, and Harriet has gone for the doctor," Mary replied.
"The doctor!" I exclaimed, still more alarmed; "for whom? Is any thing the matter with Harriet?"
"No, but Mrs. O'Donnel's baby is ill—oh! so ill, Aunt Kitty!—and Harriet has gone for the doctor, and Margaret has stayed with the baby, and sent me back to beg you to go there."
Confused as Mary's account was, it was clear enough that aid was wanted, and without waiting to ask any further questions, I set out, taking with me such simple medicines as I thought might be useful, if I should arrive before the doctor. As I left the parlor Mary followed me, and begged very earnestly to be allowed to go with me and carry some of my vials.
"But Florence, Mary, would you leave her alone?"
"I do not believe Florence cares to have me stay with her, Aunt Kitty, and I am sure I do not wish to stay," said Mary, coloring.
I remembered the angry tones I had heard, and thought it was perhaps wisest not to leave these children together while they were so evidently out of temper, so returning to the parlor, where Florence had just made her appearance, I asked her if she would like to go with me.
"No," she replied, "I am tired."
"Then, my dear, rest yourself on the sofa a while, and when you get up, look in that closet and you will find some peaches. Mary is going with me, but I will send Harriet to you as soon as I see her."
"I do not want Harriet or Mary either," said Florence, impatiently.
I soon found that I had not left all the ill-humor behind when I left Florence, for we were scarcely down the steps before Mary expressed her conviction, that "there never was such another selfish girl as Florence Arnott."
"Mary," said I, "I once told you that you were hasty in pronouncing Florence to be very generous; but that was not so blameable as your present condemnation of her, whatever she may have done. It may be unwise to be ready to praise so highly on the acquaintance of a few days, but it is unamiable to blame so severely for a single fault."
"But, Aunt Kitty, it is not a single fault. I have been thinking a long time, almost ever since you told me what made a person generous, that Florence was not so generous as I thought at first; but I do think anybody that would rather a poor little baby should die than to lose a ride for themselves, is very selfish, very selfish indeed," repeated Mary, with great emphasis.—"And now, Aunt Kitty," she continued, "I will tell you how it was, and then you will see if I am not right."
"Stop, my dear Mary," said I, as she was about to commence her story, "you are just now very angry with Florence, and would not therefore be a fair witness in the case. I had rather hear from some one else how it was."
"Why, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, with a very proud look, "you do not think I would tell you a story, I hope."
"No, my love, I am sure you would tell me nothing which you did not believe to be true; but anger makes the words and looks, and even the actions of people, appear to us very unlike what they really are. However, you have no time to tell me any thing, even if I wished it, for here we are at Mrs. O'Donnel's."
My readers may not be as unwilling as I was to hear what Mary had to say, so I will tell them what I afterwards heard of the morning's adventures from Margaret and Harriet, as soon as I have given them some account of Mrs. O'Donnel and her baby.