Then she questioned them all in the multiplication and addition tables, and in geography, made them spell words of different lengths, and heard each child read aloud; after which she said she should divide her class into two—Bessie, Belle, and Carrie Ransom in one; and the rest, she thought, could keep on together. Then she set their lessons for the next day, and afterwards read them an interesting story of a good and wise young prince, who had lived many, many years ago. This was Miss Ashton's way of teaching history; she would read or tell them of some good or great person on one day, and the next she would question them about her story, and see how much they remembered.
In fact, she made all their studies interesting; she had such a pleasant, easy way of teaching. For instance, she would say, "Belle, how many are three and three?"
Belle could not remember.
"Suppose three little girls are going to have a tea-party, you and Bessie and Carrie, and three more, Maggie and Gracie and Lily, come and ask to be invited. If you say yes, then how many little girls would there be at the party?"
"Six," answered Belle promptly; and Carrie said, "But maybe we would be dis'bliging, and say no, and then we would be only three;" at which the other children laughed, and so did Miss Ashton; but Belle never forgot again that three and three made six.
They learned none the slower for this pleasant, take-it-home-to-one's-self kind of teaching, you may be sure; and, as the weeks went by, there was not one of the little class whose friends did not find her greatly improved.
At twelve o'clock Miss Ashton dismissed her class, and the large girls in the other room had a recess; but Maggie and Bessie did not go home immediately, for Maggie had a music-lesson to take for half an hour, and her sister waited for her. During this time, she had leave to amuse herself as she pleased; for Mrs. and Miss Ashton soon found she was a child who could be trusted, and that there was no need to watch her lest she should get into mischief.
Sometimes, if the day were fine and mild, Miss Ashton would put on her wrappings, and let her run in the queer old garden, and make acquaintance with the pigeons and peacocks who lived there. Sometimes she would look at a picture-book, or at some shells Miss Ashton would lend her, or draw on her own slate; and sometimes she would be carried off by some of the larger girls, with whom she soon became a great pet, and who found much amusement in her wise, ladylike little ways and droll sayings. But her great enjoyment was to stand at the windows of the back schoolroom, which looked out over the garden and vacant lots, and watch the boys at their play.
During school-hours, the doors between the rooms were sometimes open, sometimes shut, as was most convenient; and Maggie was always very glad when the latter was the case, for that pair of black eyes continued to be a great disturbance to her even after she had learned to know and like their owner. This was Miss Kate Maynard—a bright, merry, mischievous girl, full of fun and spirits, which she did not always keep in proper check, so that, though she was a generous, kind-hearted girl, she was often bringing herself and others into trouble. More than one lesson had not yet taught her that—
"Evil is wrought by want of thought,As well as by want of heart."
It did not enter her mind for one moment that she was causing real suffering to that timid little child in the other room by her teasing looks and signs and grimaces. It amused Kate to see how, against her own will, Maggie's eyes seemed drawn to hers, and how, after every new glance, her blushes grew deeper and deeper, and she fidgeted more and more uneasily on her seat. Katie Maynard would have been shocked at the thought of giving a blow or a pinch to the child, but Maggie would have readily taken the blow to be free from those tantalising eyes. It was "fun" to Katie, and she "did not think" what it cost the little girl.
On this first day at school, Miss Ashton asked Bessie how she would amuse herself while Maggie took her lesson; and the child, who did not yet feel quite at home, begged that she might go down to the parlour with her sister. Miss Ashton consented, but said she feared she would find it rather dull; and her words proved true. Bessie stood by in loving admiration while Maggie played over one of the simple airs her mother had taught her; but when it came to exercises, and "one, two, three—one, two, three," she found it pretty tiresome. She wandered around the room a few moments, and then, hearing the sound of laughing and talking in the hall, opened the door and looked out to see what was going on. Several of the older girls were there, and as soon as Bessie's little head appeared they saw and called to her.
"There's Bessie Bradford," said one.
"Oh, you dear little thing!" cried another; "come out here and talk to us."
Bessie hesitated a moment; and then, thinking it might be more amusing to talk to the young ladies than to stay quiet and hear Maggie practising, went slowly towards them. In an instant Katie Maynard snatched her up in her arms, and, after waltzing gaily through the hall with her, brought her back to the stairs, where she seated herself with her prize upon her knee, and four or five other girls gathered about them.
"How old are you, Bessie?" asked one.
"Six years and a half," answered Bessie; "and when I have another birthday, I'll be seven."
"Here's a doughnut for you, Bessie," said another.
"No, thank you," said Bessie. "Mamma never gives me doughnuts."
"You'd better have it," said the young lady. "It is very nice, and there's a big raisin in the middle."
Bessie looked longingly at the doughnut, for she felt rather hungry, and it certainly looked very nice; but she shook her head decidedly.
"No, thank you," she said again.
"Did your mamma forbid you ever to eat them?" said the young lady.
"She did not say we must not; but it's just the same," said Bessie; "for she never gives them to us, and I do not think it is a kind of cake she would like us to eat."
"And so you came to school 'to be of use to your sister, and to be lazy,' did you?" asked Kate Maynard.
"I believe I made a little mistake about that," answered the child. "Miss Ashton made me understand it better; and, when I go home, I am going to ask mamma if she is right."
"I don't see how you dared to speak out to Mrs. Ashton about it," said Fanny Berry. "Where did you get so much pluck, you little mite?"
"Were you not afraid?" asked Kate.
"Yes'm, a little. But then you see Ihadto tell her."
"And why did youhaveto tell her?"
"'Cause I was afraid she was 'specting me to do what mamma did not want me to do."
"But if mamma had said you were not to play much, would you have been in such a hurry to tell Mrs. Ashton?" asked Fanny.
"You need not ask that, after the doughnut," said Kate, before Bessie could speak.
"Are you always so particular about doing as your mamma wishes, whether she knows it or not?" said the young lady who had offered the doughnut.
"Why, yes," said Bessie. "Are not you?"
At this, two or three of the girls laughed; and Kate Maynard said, "That shoe pinches: does it not, Mary? No indeed, Bessie: filial obedience and respect are not among Mary Morton's weaknesses."
"Do you mean she don't mind her mother?" asked Bessie, looking up with astonishment at Miss Morton, who coloured, tossed her head, and then laughed.
"Something that way," answered Kate.
"I am no worse than others," said Mary.
"I don't know," said Kate. "I do not set myself up for being very good, and I own I am not always as considerate and dutiful to my mother as I should be: but I do not think my conscience would give me much rest if I spoke to her the way you do to your mother, Mary."
"Your conscience need not trouble itself about my doings," said Mary sharply.
"But, Bessie," put in Fanny Berry, anxious to turn aside the threatened quarrel, "suppose your mother told you to do one thing, and Miss Ashton told you to do just the opposite. What then?"
"Course I'd mind my own mamma," said Bessie; "but I don't believe Miss Ashton would tell me to do what mamma did not want me to. I think she is very good and nice, and I am sure she wouldn't want little girls to be dis'bedient."
"Maybe not," said Fanny. "But suppose she ordered you to do something which your mamma had not forbidden, but of which you were sure she would disapprove: how then?"
"I'd say, 'Please to 'scuse me, ma'am; but 'tis quite unpossible.'"
The girls laughed.
"But you are expected to mind your teachers when you come to school," said Kate; "and you promised Mrs. Ashton you would be obedient; did you not?"
"Yes," said Bessie, "but"—she paused, and leaned her cheek thoughtfully on one little hand, while she drew the forefinger of the other slowly over the buttons of Kate's dress. She knew very well how she felt about it herself, and that she was right; but she could not seem to make these teasing girls understand how it was. She had a suspicion that they were laughing at her too; and she began to feel angry, as was plainly to be seen by her rising colour and trembling lip; and Kate, who was already sorry for her carelessness in troubling the sensitive conscience and puzzling the thoughtful little head, said coaxingly, "You are not vexed, Bessie?"
Bessie looked gravely at her for a moment; and then, as the angry flush faded away, she answered, "I believe I was going to be."
"And you've changed your mind, have you?" asked Mary Morton.
"I think I ought to be sorry for you," said the child.
"Why?" asked Fanny.
"'Cause you don't have such wise and good mammas as mine to give you understanding of what is right without bothering little girls like me who don't know the best way to talk about it," answered Bessie, with an air of grave reproof which was extremely amusing to the girls, who now laughed uproariously.
Bessie tried hard to slip from Kate Maynard's knee; but the young lady held her fast, saying,—
"We've caught it now, girls, and served us right too. Sit still, Bessie; you shall not be teased any more."
"You cannot make the two duties agree—eh, Bessie?" said Julia Grafton. "Well, you are not the first person who has been troubled in that way."
The word "duty" brought a thought to Bessie's mind; and suddenly looking up, with the light breaking over her face, she exclaimed,—
"Now I know everything about it! God gave me to mamma for her own little girl, to mind herfirst, and to do everything I know she will like. That is the nearest duty, and I must not let anything put me away from it. But mamma has a great deal of wisdom and care for her children, and if she did not have such trust in Miss Ashton to make us do the things she likes, I know she would not send Maggie and me to her. So we are to mind Miss Ashton all we can, without dis'beying mamma."
"Pretty well reasoned," said Julia; and Kate, giving Bessie a squeeze and a kiss, exclaimed,—
"You know a thing or two, do you not?"
"I did not know that of myself," said Bessie. "The other day grandmamma told us a story to show us how we must first do the duty we were quite sure about; and when that young lady spoke about two duties, it made me think how it was."
Her hearers smiled, and looked approvingly at one another; but there was something in the child's simple honesty and innocence which touched even these thoughtless school-girls, and kept them from putting into words their wonder and admiration at the clear, straightforward way in which she had helped herself out of the difficulty into which they, in their love of mischief, had brought her.
Kate kept her word, and did not allow Bessie to be annoyed or teased any more; but her little head was still puzzled by some of the things she had heard these great girls say. She put by these thoughts, however, till she should be able to speak to her mother about them, and chatted away sociably with Kate and the others till Maggie had finished her lesson and Jane came to take them home.
"There's straightforward honesty and wise simplicity for you," said Kate Maynard, as the front door closed behind the two little girls and their nurse, and the bell rang to call herself and her schoolmates back to their studies.
"She won't be quite so squeamishly truthful and obedient when she has been at school a month," said Julia Grafton.
"I don't know about that," said Kate. "I believe she will. It is easy to see that truth and obedience are not only matters of habit, but matters of conscience with her; and I do not think she is a child whom it will be easy to turn from what she believes to be right."
"Wait till she's tried, and you'll see," said Mary Morton. "It don't do to be too particular at school. One would be in all kinds of trouble."
"I have not generally found that strict truth and honesty were so apt to bring people into trouble, as the contrary," said Fanny Berry drily, as they entered the schoolroom.
"Well, my darlings," said mamma, as the two bright faces appeared before her, "you do not look as if school were such a sad affair after all."
"Oh no, mamma!" said Maggie; "it is not sad at all, but a very nice affair. We like it very much, and Miss Ashton is so kind, and teaches us so interestingly. But I like it best when the doors are shut, and the young ladies in the other room can't see me."
"And what does my Bessie say?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
Bessie had quite as much to say in praise of the new school, and the little tongues ran on till mamma had been told of all they had heard and seen that morning.
"And, mamma," said Maggie, "I've found out that something was true that grandmamma told me the other day. She said my shyness might stand in the way of my being of good to others; and this morning I found how it could be. There was a little girl whose mother was dead, and she was shy too, and felt very sad; and I wanted to say a kind thing to her, but somehow I couldn't. But Bessie went and spoke to her, and was of great comfort to her; and so I saw what grandmamma meant, and why I ought to try and cure myself of being shy."
"My dear little girl!" said her mother tenderly; and in her heart she thanked God that her child was so ready to take to heart and learn the lesson she needed.
Then she asked about the little one who had lost her dear mother; and when she heard that her name was Belle Powers, she said that, when she was a young lady, she had a very intimate friend who had married a gentleman named Powers, and moved away to the South; but for many years she had heard nothing of her; and she now wondered if she might not have been Belle's mother. What made her think so was, that her friend's own name had been Belle. If it were really so, she would like to be kind to the little child for her mother's sake, as well as her own.
Bessie told her that Belle had no brothers or sisters; and how Miss Ashton had said that her papa had sent her to school thinking that it might do her good, and make her forget her grief, to be with other children; and that they must all remember that she was lonely and sorrowful, and be very kind to her.
Mrs. Bradford was very sorry for little Belle, and she said the children might tell her to ask her father to let her come home with them some day after school, and have a good play in their merry, happy nursery. Of course, Maggie and Bessie immediately became anxious to have the day fixed, and mamma said if they were to do a kind thing it might as well be done at once; so they could ask Belle for the next day but one.
Bessie told her mother of the mistake she had made, and how Miss Ashton had explained it to her; and mamma said their teacher was quite right, and that she should herself have made Bessie understand more plainly what she wished her to do.
"But, mamma," said the little girl, "there was one thing that was very strange. Those young ladies in Mrs. Ashton's class seemed to think it was very surprising that I told her what I thought you meant me to do, and I almost think they would not have told her themselves; and they troubled me so about minding you that I hardly knew how it was. I think they might have been doing something better; don't you, mamma?"
Mrs. Bradford asked what she meant, and Bessie told all that had passed between herself and the girls.
Mamma said she had answered very well; and that she was glad she knew what was right herself, whether she had made the others understand it or no.
"And you were quite right about Miss Ashton, my darling," she said; "for if I had not perfect confidence in her, and did not believe she would guide and teach my little girls as I would wish to do myself, I should not have put you under her care. And you must try to remember this, dear, if Miss Ashton should give you an order or rule which you think doubtful. Many things which would be right and proper for you at home would not be best in school; and, again, that which is wise and necessary in school would not do at home. In all this you must let her judge for you, and do as you are bid. Then you may afterwards tell me, and see what I have to say."
"Mamma," said Maggie, "I am afraid it will be harder to be good at school than it is at home."
"I daresay it will, Maggie: you will probably have some trials and temptations there which you would not have at home. But you must remember, dear, that our Father's strong and loving care is with us in the one place as well as in the other. When temptation creeps in, you have only to ask His help; and He will give you the strength and grace you need to bid it begone. And if we feel we are likely to be tempted, it must only make us all the more watchful, Maggie."
"Yes, mamma," said Maggie: "we must keep our hands all the more closely on the silver thread of conscience, and look all the more at the golden letters on the guide-posts, must we not?"
It was more than a year since Colonel Rush had first told his story of "Benito" to these dear children; but it never seemed to lose its freshness or interest for them; and he often wondered, and was grateful, as he saw how they had taken it home to themselves, making it fit into their own young lives, and of their own accord drawing all manner of sweet and useful lessons from it.
"And, grandmamma," continued Maggie to her grandmother, who was sitting by, "I found out this morning how there could be other work to do for Jesus in school besides studying and reciting well and obeying my teachers. I think Bessie was doing His work when she went and comforted Belle; and Gracie did a little bit of work for Him when she gave up her seat to her."
"Did my Maggie find nothing?" asked mamma.
"I'm most afraid I did not, mamma," said Maggie slowly; "at least, if I did, it was such a very little thing, it is not worth to speak about."
"But I should like to hear," said Mrs. Bradford.
"Well, mamma, Carrie Ransom had a copy-book with a blue cover, and I had one with a pink one, and Carrie liked the pink one best, and I said I would change with her; but it was not a very great thing to do, for I did not care much about the colour."
"But you did it because Carrie cared, and you wanted to be kind to her, did you not, dear?"
"Yes, mamma."
"And Jesus put it into your heart to do it; so was it not His work?"
"Yes, I believe so, mamma; and I remember now grandmamma said it was not so much what we did for God, ashowwe did it, andwhywe did it, that made it His own work."
A pleasant surprise awaited Maggie and Bessie that afternoon, while they were out with the other children and their nurses. Baby Annie was taking her first walk upon the pavement, led by her two proud little sisters, each holding a hand, while Mammy followed close behind.
The little one, enchanted with her new performance, was chattering away in her own sweet language, not in the least disturbed by the fact that no one but herself understood it; and Maggie and Bessie were watching and listening to her in delighted satisfaction, when a pleased voice exclaimed, "Oh, there they are! and a nice baby with them!" and Belle Powers came running up to them. She scarcely looked like the sad child of the morning, so glad was she to see them; and you may be sure she had a kind welcome from her young friends.
"I was just telling Daphne about you," she said, looking round at the old coloured woman who followed her, "and there you came. Was it not funny?"
The other children also thought it a rather remarkable circumstance, but a very pleasant one; and nurse, now saying that baby had walked far enough, took her up in her arms, and Belle took her place between the two little girls; old Daphne, delighted to see a smile on the sad face of her young charge, coming on with the other nurses.
Belle was soon told of mamma's invitation, and readily promised to ask her papa's permission to go home with Maggie and Bessie on Wednesday after school.
"Where do you live?" asked Bessie.
"Over there in that hotel," answered Belle.
"Why, do you?" said Bessie. "My soldier lives there too. He never told us about you."
"Who is your soldier?" asked Belle.
"Colonel Rush; don't you know him?"
"No," said Belle; "I never saw him."
"Why, how very queer to live in the same house and not to know him!" said Bessie; but Jane, who heard what they said, explained to them that people might live for months or years in that great building, and yet never know more of one another than if they lived in different cities. The children thought this very strange and unsociable; but Belle and the colonel were a proof that Jane's words were true.
"I think we'd better try to bring you acquainted with Uncle Horace and Aunt May," said Bessie; "they'll be very kind to you, I know."
"Did you never see us when we went to the hotel?" asked Maggie. "We go there very often."
"No," said Belle. "But then I have not been here very long. I used to live in my home."
"Where was that?" asked Bessie.
"Oh, in a great deal nicer place than this, far away down at the South," answered Belle.
"Oh!" said Maggie eagerly; "and what was your mamma's name?" she would have added, but, suddenly thinking that the mention of her mother might bring back the shadow to that sad little face, she checked herself.
She need not have feared. Her tongue once loosened on the subject of her beloved Southern home, Belle talked away about that and her dear mother in a manner which showed it did her good to speak of them; while her new friends listened with great interest.
"What was your mamma's name?" asked Maggie, at last venturing her interrupted question.
"Her name was Belle, like mine," said the child.
"Oh!" said Bessie joyfully; "then I think she must have been our mamma's friend."
"How very nice that would be!" said Maggie. "Belle, if your mamma and our mamma used to be friends, won't you be our 'inseparable'?"
"No," said Belle: "I don't think I'd like to be that kind of a thing."
"Do you know what it is?" asked Maggie, rather taken aback at this plump refusal to her friendly invitation.
"No," said Belle; "but it don't sound very nice."
"Oh, I think it sounds so nice!" said Maggie "It means to be very, very great friends, and to be very fond of each other, and tell each other all our secrets."
"I'd just as lief be, if it means that," said Belle. "I think you and Bessie are very good, and I am going to love you a great deal. But I don't have any secrets. Can you tell me yours if I don't have any?"
"Oh yes!" said Maggie; "and maybe some of these days you'll have some, and then you can tell us. But Bessie and I always tell our secrets to mamma, 'cause she says it is not right for little girls to have secrets from their mothers."
So the treaty was made, and things proved as the children had hoped they would; for it was made certain that Belle's mamma had been Mrs. Bradford's friend of bygone days; and her papa being only too thankful for the interest and sympathy the lady showed for his lonely little child, and that Belle should have as companions and playmates our well-behaved and ladylike Maggie and Bessie, the three children became very nearly what Maggie had desired—"inseparables."
Maggie and Bessie had been going to school about a week, when one morning Miss Ashton said she wished all her little scholars, except Bessie, Belle, and Carrie Ransom, to write a short composition for her. This was received with some very long faces and a good many ohs! and ahs! of which Miss Ashton took no notice. Maggie and Gracie were the only two who seemed to be pleased with the prospect. Maggie, as we know, had been accustomed to composing a little. Her "History of the Complete Family" had been of great use to her in this, as well as her habit of writing letters to her friends whenever she found an opportunity. So she looked upon Miss Ashton's order more as a pleasant pastime than as a task; and she and Gracie Howard, who was also a good writer and fond of composition, seized upon their slates and pencils with great satisfaction.
Miss Ashton said each child might take as a subject the history of yesterday, and tell what she had done or what happened to her; that she would give them half an hour, and at the end of that time they must all hand her something, even if it were only a few lines; but she trusted each little girl to do her best.
"Miss Ashton," said Bessie, "could not I make a little composition too? I can't write, but I can print it."
"No, dear," answered Miss Ashton, "you have had enough study for to-day."
"But composition is not study," said Bessie fretfully; "and I want to do it, if Maggie does. I think I might;" and Bessie's lips looked rather pouty.
"Bessie," said her teacher, "what was the bargain you and I made with your mamma?"
The child's face cleared instantly, and in her own demure little way she said, "Oh, I did forget, Miss Ashton! Thank you for putting me in mind. I'm 'fraid you're disappointed in me to do a thing like that."
"No," said Miss Ashton, smiling; "I do not expect any of my little scholars to be perfect; and I am satisfied if, when they feel wrong and are told of it, they try at once to correct the naughty feeling. But now we four must keep quiet, and not disturb the others while they are writing. Bring your slates here, and we will have a drawing-lesson."
The three little girls soon gathered about her, and, lifting Bessie upon her lap, she made Belle and Carrie stand on either side, and told them they were all to try who could draw the best cow. She would try herself.
In a few moments, the three children had finished; Miss Ashton had done first, and the four slates were compared. There could be no doubt that Miss Ashton's cow was decidedly the best.Thatthey had expected, but each child had hoped her own might be the next best. Carrie was not disappointed, her cow was pretty fair; but those drawn by Belle and Bessie were very extraordinary-looking animals—Bessie's especially. In fact, it looked like nothing so little as a cow, and might rather have been taken for a table with four crooked legs going down, and three still more crooked sprawling in the air. The first four were supposed to be the legs of the creature; the last three her horns and tail.
"Oh, what a cow!" said Carrie; "she hasn't even a head."
Bessie hastily drew a round O for a head, which did not improve the cow, but made her look funnier than ever; and Carrie, saying, "What a looking thing!" went off into a fit of laughter.
Bessie flushed up angrily, stretched out her hand towards Carrie's slate, and in another moment the drawing would have been wiped from it, when, before Miss Ashton could speak, she drew the hand back, and said in a gentle but grieved voice, "I did it as good as I knew how."
"Yes," said Belle, firing up in defence of her "inseparable," and casting a scornful glance at Carrie's slate; "and her cow is a great deal prettier than yours, Carrie, and she is agreat deal betterthan you."
"No," said Bessie, laying her head with a penitent little sigh against Miss Ashton's shoulder, "hers is the best, Belle; mine is not half so good."
"But you say you did the best you could," said Miss Ashton, tenderly smoothing down the curls on the dear little head.
"Yes, I truly did," said Bessie.
"And, Carrie, did you do your best too?"
"Yes," said Carrie.
"And Belle?" said Miss Ashton.
"Yes," answered Belle.
"So did I," said their teacher; "and none of us can do more."
"I think, maybe, I could make a little better one if I was to try hard," said Belle.
"Then you may all try again; and since you agree that my cow is the best, you can take her for a pattern."
So they all tried to make one like Miss Ashton's. Carrie's was much like her first attempt, neither better nor worse; but in Bessie's and Belle's a great improvement was to be seen.
Before the half-hour was up, Maggie and Gracie had finished their compositions, and laid down their slates; but some of the children were still poring over theirs, having very little written. At last Miss Ashton said the time was up, and sent Belle to collect the slates, saying she should read the compositions aloud.
Some were very well done, Maggie's and Gracie's the two best; but with some it was plainly to be seen that the young writers had taken little or no pains. One little girl had written only,—
"I got up, and I stayed up till I went to bed. That is all I know." At which, when it was read out, the other children laughed; but the little girl herself felt rather ashamed, and wished she had tried to do better. But Miss Ashton found no fault, laying each slate aside without remark, but when she was through, and it was nearly twelve o'clock, said that her uncle wished to say a few words to all the school. Then the folding-doors were opened, and presently a white-haired old gentleman walked in and stood at Mrs. Ashton's table.
He was as pleasant-looking an old gentleman as it would be easy to find, with a merry twinkle in his eye, and a kind smile on his lips; and when he spoke it was in a hearty, cheery voice that it did one good to hear.
"My dear children," he began, "I do not mean to keep you long, for school-hours are about over, and I suppose you would rather be at your play than listening to an old man. God has not given me any children of my own, but I love all the young folks, and like to make them happy, and to help them along in any way I can. Now I have a plan to propose to you, and it is this. I will give five prizes on the first of next May. Two will be for composition—one for each class, to be given to the young lady, or little girl, who shall produce the best composition; the subject to be chosen by herself. The next two will be for general good standing in the classes, perfect lessons, and punctual attendance, etc. All these, of course, will be bestowed according to the judgment of your teachers and the number of your good marks. But the fifth and last prize, and the one which I consider the most important, will be given according to the choice of the scholars of both classes, to her who has proved herself the most obedient, truthful, and unselfish among you; in short, to her who shows in her life and conduct that she remembers and practises the two great commandments which our Saviour gave us—viz. 'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength; and the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.' You shall yourselves say to whom this is due, who has best proved that she has the fear of God and the love of her neighbour in her heart and before her eyes. And since I believe that such a child will rejoice in the power of doing good to others, I will tell you what I mean to offer as a reward.
"In a certain hospital at a short distance from this city, where little deformed children and cripples are nursed and cared for and often cured, I own a bed; that is, I pay for its use, and it is occupied by any needy child whom I may choose to send there. At present, it is taken up by a little girl who has been in the hospital for two years, and who was dreadfully lame when she went there. Now she is so nearly cured that she walks without her crutches, and the doctors say that by the spring she will be quite well.
"When she goes away, her place will be ready for some other poor child who may need such care as she has had; and to the girl whom the voice of her school-mates say has earned the right to it shall be given the choice of its next occupant. Do you understand me, little ones? This bed, with all the comforts and kind care which belong to it, shall be given to any crippled child named by the girl who shall first be chosen by the whole school as the most deserving of the pleasure. Perhaps some among you may not know any one, at present, who stands in need of it; but, if you will make inquiries among your friends, I think you cannot fail to find some poor child to whom it will be a great blessing. And now, I will keep you no longer, but say good-bye to you, hoping to meet you all here in the spring, and that you will all do so well that we shall have a great deal of trouble in deciding who are to receive the prizes."
To describe the buzz of tongues, the exclamations, wonderings, and questionings that followed as soon as Mr. Ashton had gone, would be quite impossible. It was twelve o'clock, and two or three nurses were waiting in the cloak-room for their little charges; but they found it hard work to coax them away. Miss Ashton had gone down-stairs with her uncle and mother, kindly giving Maggie a few minutes to talk off her excitement before she called her to her music-lesson, which she knew would meet with small attention just at present.
"Oh, I hope, I hope, Idohope I shall gain a prize!" said Maggie, clapping her hands, jumping about, and uttering each succeeding "hope" with more and more energy. "I must have one. Oh, I must!"
"Which one do you mean to try for, Maggie?" asked Nellie Ransom.
"I suppose I ought to wish most for the one for the lame child," said Maggie, pausing in her antics and looking thoughtful; "but I'm afraid I don't, so that's a sure sign I should not deserve to have it. No, I'd never get it; for I know I should not be the best child in the school. But I think maybe I could earn one of the others, and I will try for both; but most of all I'd rather have the one for composition. If I knew any one who would like to go to the hospital, I'd try for that; but I don't."
"O Maggie," said Bessie, "don't you remember Jemmy Bent?"
"Why, to be sure," said Maggie. "Well, I'm just glad enough Jemmy did not hear me say that. He would think me too unkind to go and forget him. But, any way, I know I'd never earnthatprize. I shall just do everything in the world to get the composition one."
"So shall I," said Gracie; "and I hope I'll be the one."
"I'm going to try too," said Dora Johnson; "but only one of us can have it. So all the rest will have to be disappointed."
"Oh dear!" said Maggie; "I didn't think about that. I'll be very sorry to have you all disappointed."
"You seem to be very sure you'll get it," said Fanny Leroy, rather snappishly.
Maggie coloured.
"Well, I did feel most sure," she said. "I only thought about trying very hard to earn it, and I forgot all the rest wanted it too, and were going to try."
"But I think you'll be the one to have it, Maggie," said Bessie.
"Well, little mouse," said Kate Maynard, dancing in, catching up Bessie, and carrying her off to the other room, where she seated the child on her desk, and took a chair in front of her,—"well, little mouse, and what makes you so sure Maggie will get the composition prize for the other room?"
"She wants it so very much, and is going to try so hard," said Bessie.
"But, as Maggie just said herself, all the others want it too, and mean to try."
"Yes," said Bessie, smiling back into the merry black eyes; "but my Maggie is very smart. She has a great deal ofmake upin her, and can tell such beautiful stories all out of her own head, and she can write them too."
"Come here, Maggie," said Kate, as the child, whose classmates were leaving, peeped around the door for Bessie,—"come here; I want to have a little talk with you about these prizes."
Maggie came slowly forward.
"Is that the way you mean to come when you are called up to get the composition prize?" said Kate. "Hurry up, tortoise, or you won't be here before recess is over."
At this, Maggie turned about as if she would have run away; but two of the larger girls caught her, and drew her over to Kate's desk.
"What are you afraid of, dear?" asked Kate, as Julia Grafton lifted the blushing child to her knee, and held her fast. "What is the reason you don't like me?"
Maggie made no answer, except by wriggling her head and shoulders, and putting up both arms, so as to cover her face as much as possible.
"Miss Kate," said Bessie gravely, "you could not 'spect Maggie to be very fond of you."
"Why not?" asked the laughing Kate. "You are very fond of me, are you not?"
"Not much," said Bessie. "But I'd be fond of you if you did not tease my Maggie. I shouldn't think you'd like to be such a trouble to any one, Miss Kate."
"I should like to know how I am a trouble to her," said Kate.
"You look at her."
"Look at her!" exclaimed Kate; "and is Maggie not to be looked at? Why, I look at you too, mousie; but you do not seem to mind it."
"You don't look at me that way," said Bessie, feeling quite sure that Kate understood what she meant. "When the doors are open, you look at Maggie in a way to tease her, and make her miss her lessons. The other day you made her miss three times."
"Pshaw! that's nonsense," said Kate, half-vexed, half-amused.
"You did," said Maggie, taking down her arms, the sense of her wrongs overcoming her bashfulness. "That was a very hard lesson, but I knew it quite well; but I could not say it when you stared at me, and shook your head at me, and laughed at me; and I missed and missed, so I had to go down foot, and I was next to head before. And it wasn't my fault, and it's too bad, now!" and the tears welled up to poor Maggie's eyes.
"So it was, Maggie," said Miss Maynard; "and I am truly sorry, I did not think, but I promise not to do so any more. Will you kiss and be friends?"
Forgiving little Maggie was quite willing, and the treaty was sealed with a kiss; the child feeling more relieved than Kate would have thought possible, at the thought that those mischievous eyes would not work her any more trouble.
"Maggie, come to your music, dear," said Miss Ashton's voice at the door.
"There, now! Miss Ashton will see she has been crying, and I shall get into trouble," said Kate.
"Maggie will not say anything about it, if she can help it," said Bessie. "She never tells tales. Mamma has brought us up not to."
"What a wise mamma!" said Julia, laughing. "But did not Maggie tell Miss Ashton the day Kate made her miss."
"No," said Bessie; "she did not tell any one but mamma. We have to tellherall our troubles, you know."
"But about these prizes, Bessie," said Kate. "Since you 'have to be rather lazy,' I suppose you do not hope to gain any."
"I know mamma would not like me to study so much as to gain the composition or perfect-lesson prize," said Bessie, "so I did not think much about those, 'cept for Maggie; but"—
"But what?" said Julia, as the child hesitated. "Have you a hope of winning the other from the whole school by being the best girl in it?"
"Not such a veryhope," said Bessie; "but oh, I do wish so very, very much that Maggie or I could have it! I'd just as lief she'd have it, 'cause we'd both do the same with it."
"Then you know some child to whom you wish to give the bed in the hospital?" asked Kate.
"Yes," said Bessie; "and he deserves it very much. He is such a good boy, Miss Kate. If he had to earn it for himself, I know he'd get it. He is a great deal better than any one in this school."
"There's a compliment for us," said Fanny Berry.
"And he is a cripple, is he?" said Kate.
"Yes'm; shall I tell you about him?"
"Of course," answered Kate.
"His name is Jemmy Bent," said Bessie, "and, a good while ago, he fell off a stone wall and hurt his back very much, so he had to lie in bed all the time. He and his mother and his sister Mary live in a little red house by the creek that is near Riverside, where Grandpapa Duncan lives; and grandpapa and Aunt Helen are very good to him; and his mother wanted to buy a wheel-chair, so that he could be out in the nice air and sun; but she was too poor, and grandpapa let Maggie and me earn the chair for him. And since he had the chair, he has been better and stronger; and grandpapa thought if he could go where he would have very good care, perhaps he might be made quite well. So he took a doctor, who knew a great deal, to see Jemmy; and the doctor said he never would be very well, but he thought he could be cured so much that he could go about on crutches. But he said he must have care all the time, and be where he could be 'tended to every day. But he said he ought not to be brought to the city, 'cause he was used to living in the country, and it was better for him. So grandpapa wanted to put him into a country hospital, where they take lame children—maybe it was the very one the prize gentleman told us about; but it was so full they had no room for Jemmy. So he has to wait, and Maggie and I were very sorry about it. But Jemmy did not know what grandpapa tried to do, so he was not disappointed. It would be a very happy thing for Jemmy if he could ever be so well as to walk on crutches, for now he has to be wheeled about in his chair, and cannot take one step on his feet."
"And he is such a very good boy, is he?" said Kate, when Bessie, having talked herself out of breath, came to a pause.
"Oh yes!" said the child; "you could not find an excellenter boy anywhere, I'm sure. He's so patient and so happy; and he never frets or is cross, though he has a great deal of pain to bear. And if he's tired of being in one place, he cannot move himself, but has to wait till some one comes to roll his chair. Sometimes he and his mother and sister used to be hungry too, and did not have enough bread to eat; and, do you b'lieve, not a bit of butter on it! But Aunt Helen found that out, and she takes care of them now, and finds work for Mrs. Bent and Mary, so they need never be hungry any more, or cold either. And mamma helps them too; so they're rather com'fable now."
"Your Jemmy seems to have found good friends," said Kate. "And so you and Maggie earned his easy-chair for him; and now you want to earn this hospital-bed for him, do you?"
"Oh, so much!" The tone said as much as the words, as did the glowing cheeks and wistful eyes. There could be no doubt that the wish was heartfelt; and Kate, taking the earnest little face between her hands, kissed it warmly, and said,—
"You're a darling, and Maggie's another. I think your mother has a pair of you."
"Yes," said Bessie innocently; "and there are two more pair of us, Harry and Fred, and Frankie and baby."
The girls laughed again; and Kate, catching the child up in her arms, began to dance with her about the room, which was the signal for a general frolic that lasted till Jane came to take the children home.
"Yes indeed, mamma! I must, I must have that prize for composition," said Maggie, after she and Bessie had told their mother of all the events of the morning.
"And do all the others think they must have it too, Maggie?"
"Well, yes, mamma, I believe they do; at least most of them want it very much, and Gracie and Fanny Leroy are very anxious for it. We were talking a little about it, before I went to my music-lesson; and when Dora put us in mind that all but one would have to be disappointed, somehow I did not feel so very happy about it. But I do not feel as if I could give up trying for it. Do you think it is selfish in me, mamma?"
"No, love, not at all. So long as you are willing that the others should have an equal chance with yourself, and take no unfair advantage of them; and that, I am sure, my Maggie would not do."
"No indeed, mamma; I hope I would never be so mean. Then you think it is quite right for me to try for the prize?"
"Yes, dear. God has given to each one of us certain powers or talents which He means us to use for His service and our own improvement. Only let us be sure, 'whatsoever we do, to do it to the glory of God,' and not simply to gain some praise or some fancied good for ourselves. For although we may succeed, even with such a motive, yet it will not bring a blessing. Do your very best, not with the sole purpose of beingfirst, or of carrying away the prize from others, but that you may please your Father in heaven, and make the most of the opportunities He has given you. Then you will be sure of the best of rewards—that of a good conscience, and the smile of God; and if the earthly reward is won too, well and good, but that is not the chief thing."
"But I'm afraid Ididthink it was the chief thing," said Maggie, gravely shaking her head; "and I'm afraid the reason I would like the prize so much, was because I wanted every one to say I made the best composition. I don't think I thought a bit about glorifying God. Mamma, I hope you do not think I had better not try for the prize."
"Not at all, dear," said her mother. "I should be very sorry if you did not try to gain it. Do your very best, only do it with love to God and your neighbour; not feeling jealous or envious if another does better, or too much puffed up if you should be the one to receive the prize."
"Well, I will try not to be too very anxious about it, mamma," said Maggie.
But Maggiewasvery anxious about this prize;soanxious, so bent upon gaining it, that her mother was almost sorry it had been offered by Miss Ashton's uncle. Morning, noon and night, it seemed to be upon her mind; everything that pleased or interested her was talked over as "a subject;" and Mrs. Bradford was not a little amused one day to find in Maggie's room, the following:—
"LIST OF PRIZE SUBJECTS.
"Elephants;Doing unto Others;Potry;Mind your own Business;A Fabel;Sunset;Dolls;Churches;Vegitables;School;A Letter;A Story;Christmas;What can't be cured, must be endured."
It had been arranged that the prize papers were not to be begun before the 1st of April, but that meanwhile the children were to do all they could to improve themselves, not only in composing, but also in writing and spelling. Miss Ashton gave them a composition to write during school-hours, one day in each week; but this did not satisfy Maggie, and at home she was constantly scribbling and reading aloud her productions to the admiring Bessie, till her mamma, who thought she was too much taken up with it, and that she scarcely gave herself time enough for play in her excitement and anxiety, forbade her to write more than half an hour each day, whether in school or at home; and this in spite of Maggie's plea that she was "only exercising her ideas."
So the days and weeks passed by, bringing nearer the Christmas holidays, when there would be no school for a fortnight; and about this time a very pleasant thing happened to our two little girls and their new friend Belle.
As you were told before, the three children had become very intimate, Belle being often invited to pass the day with Maggie and Bessie; and she dearly loved to go. Colonel and Mrs. Rush, with whom the children had "brought her acquainted," took a great interest in her, and sometimes, when Maggie and Bessie came to see them, would send over to Mr. Powers' rooms for Belle to come and join her young playmates.
She was a sweet-tempered and truthful child; but she was not as obedient as Mrs. Bradford's little girls, and was in some things rather spoiled. She would argue and fret when told to do a thing which did not suit her, and sometimes she would deliberately disobey. Her mother had been ill for a long time before her death, and not able to do much for her child; and her father perhaps humoured her more than was good for her, so that Belle had not had much training, and generally thought her own way was quite as wise and safe as that of older people. Mr. Powers himself became fond of dropping in at the Bradfords' pleasant home, where he always found a warm welcome.
One day, shortly before Christmas, Belle went home from school with Maggie and Bessie, and spent the rest of the day with them, and in the evening her father came to take her home. He sat down in the library with Mr. and Mrs. Bradford, while the three little girls in the other room were talking over some very important holiday arrangements.
"I fear my poor pet will not wear as bright a face to-morrow as she does to-day," said Mr. Powers, as he looked through the open doors at the happy little ones.
"Why?" asked Mrs. Bradford; "there is no trouble in store for her, I hope."
Mr. Powers shook his head sadly.
"Yes," he said: "I shall have to leave her for a while; and, what is more, so will Daphne, her old nurse. Daphne's son is very ill in Savannah, and the old woman, of course, is most anxious to see him before he dies. She is too helpless and ignorant to be allowed to go alone; and, as I have business in Savannah which must have taken me South in a few weeks, I shall go a little sooner, and see Daphne safely there. But we must travel day and night, if we are to be in time; and such a journey would be too much for my poor baby. I shall be forced to leave her behind, and it will go near to break her little heart. We must start to-morrow at noon, and I shall have to tell her in the morning."
"But what do you mean to do with her?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
"To leave her with Miss Ashton, if she will take charge of her, as I think she will. I shall go and see her this evening after I have taken Belle home. She will be well cared for there, I am sure."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford; "but I fear she will be very lonely after school-hours are over. There are only Miss Ashton and her mother; and, though I do not doubt she would receive every kindness, it will be dull for the little thing. Suppose you let her come to us: she will bear your absence better if she is with our children whom she is fond of."
Mr. Powers' melancholy face lighted up with pleasure; but the next moment he shook his head doubtfully.
"It would be the very thing for her," he said, "but quite too much to ask from you. You are not strong yet, and it would not be right to give you the charge of another child."
But Mrs. Bradford would not listen to this, as long as Mr. Powers was satisfied to have his child with her. Belle was not much trouble, she said; and nurse and Jane would readily do for her as for the others. So, after a little more talk, it was settled, greatly to the father's satisfaction. Mrs. Bradford said it would be well to tell Belle now, while she had the other children at hand to console her, and make her feel she might enjoy herself even though her father and nurse were away; and the little girls were called in.
"Belle," said Mrs. Bradford, "how would you like to come and stay with Maggie and Bessie for a while?"
"What! do you mean to stay all night and sleep here?" said Belle, with wide-open eyes.
"Yes, dear, for several nights, for three or four weeks. Would you not have pleasant times?"
"Yes, if papa comes too," said Belle, drawing herself from Mrs. Bradford's arm, and springing to her father's knee, where she clung to him, as if she feared she were to be parted from him by force.
"But papa cannot come too, my precious one," said her father. "I have to go on a journey; and Mrs. Bradford has kindly said you may stay here with her little girls till I come back."
"I shall go on a journey too; yes, I shall, Ishall!" was Belle's answer.
"But you cannot, darling," said Mr. Powers; and then, as cheerfully as he could, he told his little girl why he and Daphne must go away, and what a pleasant arrangement had been made for her during their absence.
Belle did not make the outcry which Mrs. Bradford had expected, but every time her father paused, repeated, "Ishallgo a journey too."
Poor child! she was not accustomed to a ready obedience; and she knew that, if she persisted, she could often carry her point with her father; while he, feeling that this time, at least, hecouldnot yield, feared each moment to hear her break out in cries and sobs when she found she could not have her own way. To all his coaxings and promises she made the one quiet but determined reply, though each time her voice became more choked.
But now Bessie came softly behind Mr. Powers, and, gently trying to disengage one of the little hands which were tightly clasped about his neck, said in a low tone,—
"You would not make a trouble for your papa, when you say you are 'his little comfort,' Belle, would you?"
"Ishallgo a journey with him," said Belle, in the same old tone.
"Oh no!" said Maggie, coming round to the other side; "you will stay here with us, and have such a lovely, lovely time. We are a very nice family to stay with," she added persuasively.
"Belle does not doubt that, I believe," said Mr. Powers, smiling rather sadly; "but she and I have no one but one another to pet, and it comes pretty hard to part, even for a time."
"But we are going to try and make her very, very happy, even if you are away, sir," answered Bessie.
"And, Belle, next week Christmas will be here, and if you go on a journey you will not see our tree; and we have a great many nice things to do in the holidays."
"We have some of our presents to buy yet," said Maggie, "and we want you to help us, and we have money to buy you a present too; and papa and mamma will give you presents if you stay: will you not, mamma?"
Mrs. Bradford said, "Certainly;" but all these promises only drew forth the same answer.
"And we are all to go to Riverside in grandmamma's sleigh, and spend the day there," said Bessie; "and you will go too, and if there is not enough of room I will let you have my place."
"Why, how much you will have to tell me of when I come back," said Mr. Powers cheerfully. "You must be sure and remember all these pleasant things, so that I may hear about them."
"Ishallgo a"—began Belle; but before she had time to finish the old sentence, Maggie broke in with,—
"Oh, she could write to you about them, Mr. Powers. She can make up a letter every day, and I will write it for her, and she can put it in the lamp-post herself. Will not that be nice, Belle?"
"I couldn't make up so much," said Belle.
"Oh yes! you could do enough," said Maggie. "You could tell your father you was alive, any way, and he'll be glad to know that. Yes, we'll send him a letter every day."
This proved to be a most happy idea, and was the first thing which brought any consolation to poor little Belle; and her father, seeing that she was at last interested, improved it by saying,—
"Dear! dear! I shall have to leave behind me quite a fortune in postage-stamps to pay for so many letters. Let me see if I have enough."
And he pulled out his pocket-book, and, taking from it a quantity of stamps, began to count them over; while Belle, after submitting to let Bessie wipe the tears from her eyes, watched him with eager interest, as did the two other little girls.
"There is one for the day after to-morrow," said Mr. Powers. "You will not think it worth while to write to-morrow, I suppose."
"Oh yes! I think they had better begin at once," said Mrs. Bradford, who saw that this writing of letters to her papa was likely to divert Belle's mind from her grief at parting with him.
"Very well," replied Mr. Powers; and he counted out a postage-stamp for each day as far as his stock would go. "Here are only enough for two weeks."
"We shall have to stop and buy some as we go home, Belle."
"And here, Belle," said Bessie, "you may have this box of mine to keep them in. You may have it for your very own to keep all your life."
"And you will write her letters for her; will you, Maggie?" asked Mr. Powers.
"Yes, sir. Mamma lets me have half an hour for writing every day, and I will give it to Belle."
Mrs. Bradford was glad to hear Maggie say this. She had feared that the little girl was too eager and anxious for the composition prize; but this proved that the desire for it had not made her selfish, and that she was willing to lessen her chances of it for the sake of being a help and comfort to her motherless little friend. She did not tell Maggie that she might still "exercise her ideas" during the allowed half-hour, and take some other time for writing Belle's letters. Since the dear child was willing to make the sacrifice, she thought it just as well to let her do so.
So Belle was pacified, and made to believe that she might, after all, be able to bear the separation from her father; and this letter-writing did indeed prove to be a great source of comfort and amusement to her.
Mr. Powers did not send her to school the next morning, but kept her with him till the last moment taking her himself to Mrs. Bradford's house, and leaving her in the kind lady's care. When Maggie and Bessie came home, they found her sitting on the sofa beside their mother, her head in her lap, and looking the very picture of woe. She brightened considerably, however, when she saw them, and asked Maggie if she was ready to write her letter for her, saying she was "only going to tell her father that she was going to die of grief."
Mrs. Bradford made no objection to this, but said that the children must all have their dinner before they did anything else; and, as she expected, by the time Belle had made a good meal, and chatted, as she ate it, with her happy, merry little companions, she thought better of her intentions of "dying of grief."
Then the letter was written; but as it was so short a time, only two hours indeed, since Mr. Powers had gone, there was not much to tell; and it contained only these words:—
"DEAR, DARLING PAPA,—I think I better not die of trouble of your going away, 'cause Maggie says then all the postage-stamps will be wasted.
"YOUR DEAR LITTLE BELLE."
The most important, part of these letters, according to the thinking of the little ones, was the postage-stamps, and the putting them into the lamp-post boxes; and these Belle always insisted on doing herself.
On this day they all went out to walk together, and when they reached the first box the children paused to put the letter in. The box was far above their heads, and a gentleman was there before them, putting letters through the slide.
"Shall I put in your letter for you, my dear?" said he to Belle, who held the precious message to papa fast in her hand, while she waited her turn.
"No, sir," said Belle. "I want to send my own letter to papa my own self. He won't like it so much if somebody else sends it."
"Oh, that is it!" said the stranger; "but you can scarcely reach up here. Shall I lift you?"
Belle agreed, and the gentleman lifted her, and let her slip the letter into the box herself, telling her he was sure her papa would be much pleased with it; and Belle went on her way well satisfied.
"Do you think dear papa has my letter yet?" she said to Bessie, when, an hour later, they returned home.
"Oh yes, long ago!" answered Bessie. "Why, we took a long walk, Belle; and it's a great while since you sent it."
"Maybe he's sitting in the cars, reading it," said Belle; to which Bessie replied, "Course he is," and since neither of them knew it, neither of them was disturbed by the fact that it would take three or four days for the letter to reach Mr. Powers; and Belle was made quite happy when she received the next morning a little note from her papa, written in the cars and posted at the first stopping-place on his way.
She and Bessie made another droll mistake one day. Maggie had gone out with her Aunt Annie, and so was out of the way when it was time for the others to take their walk; and lo, the daily letter was not written, forgotten for the first time! Bessie and Belle were both in a great way about it. Mamma, too, having gone to ride, there was no help to be had from her.
"Do it yourself, can't you?" said Bessie: "you can print a little."
"Yes," said Belle, seizing on a sheet of paper. "But what shall I say? I haven't much to tell to-day."
"And we haven't time for much thoughts about it," said Bessie. "Nurse has baby 'most ready, and she don't like her to be kept waiting. You might tell him you are alive. Maggie said he would like to know that."
"Yes," said Belle, and she began to writs; but a new difficulty arose.
"How do you spell 'alive'?" she asked,
Bessie thought a moment.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "Oh yes!lifeis in one of the Bible texts, and it's l-i-f-e. I guess that's the way you spell 'alive,' only to put aain front of it."
Belle took it all in good faith, and printed out,—
DEAR PAPA,—I am alife.
"So Good-bye."
Then it was put into the envelope.
"But I don't know how to put papa's name," said Belle.
Bessie had not thought of this trouble. "Shall we ask nurse or Jane?" she said.
"No," said Belle. "I don't believe they know how to write papa's name, or where he has gone to."
"But won't the postage-stamp make it go all safe?" asked Bessie.
"Oh, to be sure!" said Belle, and the postage-stamp was put on; and, nurse and Jane appearing at that moment with the other children, they set out, Belle in great glee at having contrived to "do" her letter all by herself, and reached the familiar lamp-post, where she was lifted up by Jane, and dropped it in, neither of the nurses observing that it had no address; and both the little girls firmly believing it would go in the proper direction with that important postage-stamp on it.
After all, Belle continued to be very happy while her father was away. She would have been very ungrateful if she had not been both happy and good when so much was done to please her. The Christmas holidays came and passed, and she shared in all the enjoyments which were provided for Maggie and Bessie, and was treated quite as if she were one of the family; while Mrs. Bradford could not help thinking that she had improved a little, being more obedient and far less wilful. The example of such a prompt obedience as was shown by the other children had done her good.
And now the holidays were over, and they were back at school once more, while the time for Mr. Powers' return was drawing near.