Bessie obeyed the first injunction, but the second was out of her power. She was no longer cross, however, and begged Fred's pardon for having spoken so pettishly to him; but she sent away her supper almost untasted, and continued thoughtful and rather mournful till her bed-time. She was really glad when that hour came, and she was safe in bed, when she could think over this troublesome matter in quiet, and ask for the help which never failed her.
She thought she should stay awake till her mother came home; and, as she lay tossing and restless, it seemed to her that mamma was staying away half the night. But, although it was not really so very late, she had dropped off to sleep before her mother came to see if her little girls were all safe and quiet for the night; and mamma was sorry to find Bessie's face and pillow wet with tears.
Nurse could not tell what the trouble had been, only that Bessie had seemed dull and out of spirits when she put her to bed, and would not say what ailed her.
The little girl woke very early the next morning, and, finding Maggie still sleeping, she lay quietly thinking.
Thinking of that which had troubled and puzzled her so last night; but now it seemed all clear.
She feared that the paper which she had seen in the drawer was Gracie's composition; but she was not sure; and she had had a hard struggle with herself, trying to believe that it was not her duty to go and find out.
A voice had whispered to her, "What is the good of looking? You only saw a paper which may be Gracie's, and may not be; and it is none of your business. Just let it alone, and trouble yourself no more about it. If you found it was really the lost composition, what would you do then? Go and tell every one, and take away Maggie's chance for the prize? Remember what your uncle and the colonel said. And does not every one say that Gracie is only properly punished for her vanity? Why should you interfere? If you did know that was the missing paper, is there any reason why you should tell where it is? If you injure Gracie by keeping it back, do you not injure Maggie by bringing it to light? Maggie is your sister, your own dear little sister; and surely you ought to consider her first, and do what is best for her."
"But," said conscience, "is it right, is it just? How would you feel towards any one who did this to Maggie? Would you not say they had acted unfairly and meanly towards her? Would you like your papa or mamma or any other person to know it? Will Jesus be pleased with you, and think you are acting as His own little child should do?"
Poor little thing! She was really sorely puzzled. She could not make it seem right to do what she wished to do, and what seemed to be best for her sister; and yet how could she make up her mind to do what appeared so unkind to her own Maggie? Oh, if mamma were only there to help her to know what was right and best! Well, all she could do was to tell her all her doubts in the morning.
Such were the thoughts which had disturbed her last night, and called forth the tears with which mamma had found her pillow wet; but this morning the struggle was over, and Bessie felt quite sure that there was onlyoneright thing for her to do.
She lay still till Maggie woke, and then said, "Maggie, are you wide awake? 'cause I have a bad news to tell you."
Maggie, who was always very wide awake and ready for the day's business the moment her eyes were opened, answered, eager with expectation, "Oh, yes! very wide indeed. Is it about what troubled you last night, Bessie? Tell me quick."
"Yes," said Bessie slowly; "but first I want to ask you something, dear Maggie. If I had to do a very unkind thing to you, or to some other person, what would you think I ought to do?"
"Why," said Maggie, sitting up in her little bed, "I would think you ought to choose that other person to do it to. I'm your sister, you know," in a tone as if this quite settled the question.
"Yes," said poor Bessie, with a sigh. "But then, Maggie, what if I thought it most right to do it to you?"
"Well," said Maggie, hugging up her knees, and leaning her chin against them, while she gazed in surprise at Bessie,—"well, if you thought such a queer thing as that, why, I'd have to think you were a little bit crazy, Bessie."
"Yes, if Iwantedto do it, Maggie; but, you know, I would rather do an unkind thing to any one than you. But if it seemed thetruest, thehonestestway, would you think I was crazy then?"
"Well, no," said Maggie, rather doubtfully; "but I don't see how that could be, Bessie; and I can't judge much if you don't tell me more about it."
"Maggie, last night when I went to the drawer in the hall-table, I saw something there, 'way far back, that looked like a rolled-up paper."
"Well?" said Maggie.
"And Ithink, but I am notsure, that it had a piece of red ribbon on it; but I did not wait to look again, and shut up the drawer very quick."
"Oh!" said Maggie, as she released her clasp on her knees, and rolled over on her pillow; "then that was what ailed you last night, I s'pose."
"Yes," answered Bessie piteously; "and you know what I thought it looked like, don't you, Maggie?"
"Well, yes," said Maggie, taking the news much more coolly than Bessie had supposed she would. "I s'pose you thought it was Gracie's composition; and it was."
"How do you know?" asked Bessie, starting up.
"'Cause last night I went to put the brush back in the drawer, and when I pulled it open I heard something rustle, and I peeped in, and poked till it fell out on the floor; and it was Gracie's paper, all mussed up and crumpled; I guess it came so, being squeezed up in the drawer. So you see she didn't take it away with her after all; but I do wonder how it came there."
"But why didn't you tell me?" asked Bessie.
"Why, I thought you had one unhappiness in your mind already," said Maggie; "and I knew you would feel rather sorry about this, so I thought I would not tell you till this morning. But, Bessie, why didn't you tell me, and why didn't you look again and be sure?"
"'Cause I didn't want to be sure. O Maggie! you were a great deal better than me. I tried to think I did not know what the paper was, and that I need not find out if I did not want to, and that it was not mine to do anything about, and that it would not be right to do such an unkind thing to you. But all I could do, it would seem as if it was a kind of a cheat, not very true; and I had to feel as if I ought to look again, and if it was really Gracie's paper to give it to her. But I could not help praying a good deal that our Father would not let it be the composition if He did not think it was very much the best. I think it was worse than about the hospital bed, Maggie. I did feel so sure yesterday that you would have the prize now."
"You darling, precious ducky!" said Maggie, "That was an awful temptation for you. Oh, I forgot! papa told me not to say 'awful.' But then that wasreallyawful; so I can say it this time."
"Didn't you feel a bit like hiding it, Maggie?" said Bessie.
"Why, no," said Maggie. "I never thought about its being the composition, till I picked it up, and saw it was. But I felt as provoked as anything for a moment—I'm sure I don't know who at;—but I just felt that if it would not be so awfully—I mean so dreadfully—mean, I'd just like to tear the composition up. But after that I was more sensible; and then I remembered about you, and how you'd be provoked too; so I put the paper back in the drawer, and thought I'd tell you and mamma this morning, and then we'd take it to school for Gracie."
"I believe you're just the best, darlingest girl that ever lived!" exclaimed Bessie, looking at her sister in great admiration and relief. "And now, dear Maggie, I suppose you know what the unkind thing was I had to do to you; and you won't think me a bit crazy, will you?"
"Why, no," said Maggie; "you couldn't help it, you had to do it, so that I don't see that it was unkind. And, Bessie, you see it was a great deal harder for you about the temptation than it was for me. If it had been you that had a chance for the prize, I don't know if I could have stood it—no, I don't, Bessie. There! mamma is awake. I hear her talking. Mamma! mamma! can we come in your bed? We have a discovery to tell you."
Mamma said "yes," and, jumping up, they ran into the other room, and scrambled into her bed, where the "discovery," and the story of Bessie's temptation and struggle, were soon told.
"My dear little girls!" said Mrs. Bradford fondly. "I am so thankful!"
"For what, mamma?" said Maggie, in surprise "You are not glad that Gracie's composition is found, are you? I thought it was rather a misfortune; but then, you see, we could not help it?"
"I am notsorry," said her mother, "since it has shown me that my fears were without cause; and that all your anxiety for these prizes could not make you unfair or ungenerous towards another, or lead either of you from the ways of truth and uprightness. Yes; I would rather know this, than that my Maggie and Bessie should gain a thousand prizes."
It never was found out exactly how the lost paper came in that drawer. No one could recollect putting it there; and Mrs. Bradford said Gracie must have laid it on the table after she brought it out to her, and some person have caught it up with other things, and thrust it in without noticing it. That drawer had been searched with other places, but the paper had been pushed out of sight, till Bessie heard the rustle and discovered it.
Gracie was not at school that morning, for the child had actually cried herself sick on the previous day; but when Maggie gave her own composition to Miss Ashton to be placed in her uncle's hands, she gave Gracie's with it, as she knew her little friend would wish.
"And where was it found, dear?" asked Miss Ashton, who stood leaning against the window of the back room with her arm about Belle Powers' waist; while most of the girls, large and small, were gathered about her, enjoying the sweet spring air which came in through the open sash.
How pleasant the old garden looked this bright May morning, with the early leaves just budding forth, its peach-trees covered with delicate pink blossoms, its crocuses, violets, and tulips all in full bloom, the pigeons dressing their feathers on the stone wall, the guinea hens and two peacocks strutting about, and the sparrows and other small birds twittering and hopping among the branches!
Maggie told where and how she had found the paper.
"And were you not put out when you found it?" said Kate Maynard thoughtlessly.
Maggie looked up into the laughing face, and answered candidly, "Yes, Miss Kate, I was; but I think I'm over that now."
"Maggie was very good indeed about it, Miss Kate," said Bessie quickly. "Nobody could be better. Mamma was very much pleased with her."
"Maggie is just a great dealtoogood," said Dora Johnson. "She ought to have left it in the drawer, and not said a word about it.Iwould have, and good enough for that proudy."
"Dora," said Miss Ashton, "I do not think you would have done a thing like that, would you, my dear?"
"Well'm," said Dora, "if it had been for myself, maybe I wouldn't; but if I had known Gracie's composition was there, I wouldn't have told her to make a chance against Maggie."
"I wouldn't either," said Bella. "Let's throw it away again, and not tell Gracie;" and, quick and impulsive as she always was, she snatched the unlucky paper from Miss Ashton's hand, and tossed it with all her little strength out of the window.
What would Gracie have said to see her much-thought-of composition so scornfully handled? But it did not come to much further harm. Falling upon the roof of the piazza below, it only rolled down to the edge and lay there.
"No, no, little Belle," said Miss Ashton, speaking in the gentle, excusing tone which all, teachers and scholars, used to the motherless child of an over-indulgent, rather spoiling father. "No, no, little Belle: that is naughty. You would not be unfair to Gracie even for your favourite Maggie, would you?"
"Yes'm," said Belle decidedly; "I would. Maggie is the best."
"But it is who has the best composition, not who is the best child," said Miss Ashton. "And we are not the judges of that; all must have the same chance."
"I wish I were the judges," said Belle, regardless of grammar; "and I would give prizes for everything, and all to Maggie and Bessie; but only one for Miss Ashton," and she patted affectionately the hand about her waist. "Anyhow, Gracie can't get that now. When it rains, it will be all spoiled."
The girls laughed at the satisfied tone and nod of the head which accompanied these words; but Miss Ashton said, "Oh no, Belle! I shall send Marcia out to pick it up. We must all be just to one another; must we not, Bessie?" and she smiled into the earnest eyes which were looking up into hers, though she had no idea of the struggle which her truthful little scholar had gone through before she could make up her mind that, justice to Gracie was not something very like injustice to her own dear Maggie.
"Well," said Kate, laughing and rubbing Maggie's cheeks between her hands till they were even rosier than was natural to them, "if the composition prizewereto go by favour, we all know who would have it; do we not, Maggie?"
Yes, this was so; and Gracie, really a pleasant, affectionate child, had arrayed all her schoolmates against her by her self-conceit and vanity, till not one of them was ready to be pleased at the possibility of her gaining the prize.
She lay upon the sofa that afternoon, recovering from the headache into which she had cried herself. She still looked as if she felt very wretchedly both in mind and body, and lay idly playing with the tassels of the sofa-cushions, thinking, thinking of her lost treasure. Her father sat by the table, writing; her mother by the window, playing with her little brother.
"Why," said Mrs. Howard, looking out of the window to see what had called forth such a delighted exclamation from Charlie, "here are Maggie and Bessie with their nurse. Coming to see why you have not been to school, I suppose, Gracie."
"I don't want to see them, and Iwon't, now!" said Gracie pettishly, flouncing herself around. "I know they've come to let me see how glad they are about to-morrow."
"Gracie," said her father sternly, "I will have no more of this." Then, more gently, he added, "I do not know you, my daughter, in such a mood as this. You are not only destroying your own comfort and that of every one about you, but you are allowing your disappointed vanity to make you unjust and unkind to your little friends. I wish you to see Maggie and Bessie, and to receive them as kindly and politely as you would have done a few days since, before this wicked jealousy took possession of you."
Gracie was startled, for she was not accustomed to hear her father speak in this way; indeed, she did not often deserve it, and she was still crying when Maggie and Bessie came in.
"Poor Gracie!" said Bessie, as soon as she and her sister had spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Howard; "we were 'fraid you were sick when you didn't come to school, so we asked mamma to let us come and see you, for we have some very good news for you."
"What?" said Gracie, looking and speaking as if no news would ever be good again to her.
"Your composition is found," said Maggie.
"Where is it?" asked Gracie, starting to her feet.
"I s'pose Mr. Ashton has it now," answered Maggie. "I gave it to Miss Ashton when I found you were not at school, 'cause they all had to be handed to her uncle this afternoon; and I thought that was what you would want me to do."
Gracie did not need to meet her father's or mother's accusing eye to feel how causeless her unjust suspicions had been. Delight at the recovery of the lost paper was almost overcome by self-reproach and shame; and her head sank, while a choking feeling in her throat kept her from speaking her thoughts.
"Where was it found, dear child?" asked Mr. Howard; and Maggie once more repeated the story.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" said Gracie, throwing an arm about the neck of each one of her little schoolmates.
"So sorry for what? 'cause your composition is found?" asked the wondering Bessie.
"No; because I was so naughty and ugly and hateful, and said such mean things to you and about you," said Gracie, more repentant than she could find words to tell.
"Oh, never mind now," said Maggie, with sweet forgivingness. "You wouldn't have said them if you hadn't been so disappointed."
"And, Gracie," said Bessie, "we couldn't help feeling a little glad, though we were sorry for you. I heard papa tell mamma it was only human nature, and I s'pose it's to be 'spected you'd have a little human nature too."
"What is human nature, Bessie?" asked Mr. Howard.
Bessie stood thoughtful a moment, and then answered,—
"I'm not very sure, sir; but I think it means temper and selfishness and other naughty things that Jesus don't like."[1]
[1] A fact.
Mr. Howard smiled.
"Isn't that right, sir?" asked Bessie, rather anxiously.
"Just about right, dear child," answered the gentleman. "Human nature is pretty much made up of such things."
"But then Jesus will help us with it, if we go to to Him," said the child softly to herself, thinking of the battle she had fought with her own sinful nature, and the victory she had won through the aid of the Captain she had chosen.
The good news about her composition did much toward helping on Gracie's recovery; and before Maggie and Bessie went away, she was quite herself once more, and talking cheerily to them about to-morrow's expected events.
Mrs. Ashton's schoolrooms were a pretty sight the next morning, for scarcely a girl in either class but had brought some flowers as a gift to her teacher, and they were all set forth to deck the rooms. The girls were all in white, the elder ones with pink ribbons, the little children with blue to mark their classes; though there was not much need of this, for the difference in size would have done that readily enough. But it was a fancy of some of the girls, and as it put them all in a sort of uniform, and made the rooms look gay, it was just as well. But the bright young faces, full of pleasure and good-humour, were the greatest attraction there, and so thought Miss Ashton as one after another appeared.
The girls all came about two o'clock, though their friends were not expected till half an hour later.
"Did you ever see a lovelier day?" said Kate Maynard, coming in with her hands full of lilies of the valley, the sight of which called forth many an admiring "oh!" and "ah!" from the rest.
"Lovely!" said Julia Grafton; "it is a real genuine poet May-day. No make-believe spring about this."
"Oh," said Kate, "we ought to have chosen a May Queen, and crowned her. Why did we not think of it before? Well, it is not too late now: let us do it, and I will make a crown of these lilies."
The proposal met with general approval.
"Whom shall we choose?" said Fanny Leroy.
"One of the little ones, of course," said Kate, looking round upon the pleased group of the smaller children who gathered about her to watch the skilful fingers which were already at work upon the wreath of lilies.
Belle clapped her hands.
"Maggie, Maggie! let's have Maggie!" she said. "She's the best-deserving for being so good about Gracie's composition."
"Yes, Maggie," said Gracie, who, feeling sure that she would herself carry off what she considered the greatest honour of the day, was glad to have her little friend obtain a lower one. "Let her be May Queen."
The other children readily agreed, for Maggie's sweet-tempered and obliging ways had made her a favourite with all the school. She was not a little pleased; but, when Kate had completed the wreath, her bashfulness took alarm at the idea of wearing it before all the ladies and gentlemen, and so exciting notice she might otherwise escape. It required a good deal of coaxing from all, and some pretence of hurt feeling on Kate's part, before she could be induced to put it on; but, after a time, she forgot the honours that had been forced upon her in the other claims upon her attention.
Only once was she a little disturbed, after they were all in their places, and their friends had arrived. This was when Bessie, seeing her mother's eyes fixed with some surprise upon Maggie, thought herself called upon for an explanation. Placing a hand upon either side of her mouth, and speaking between them, she said, in a loud whisper which reached the ears of every one in both rooms, as well as the one for whom it was intended,—
"She's May Queen, mamma. The girls made her it. Don't she look lovely?"
A smile passed around the room, and down went her majesty's head in a style very unbefitting one which wore a crown.
But now all were ready, and the examination began. There is no need to say much about that, save that it was not long, and, as Mr. Ashton said, did credit to both teachers and scholars. Next, Mr. Ashton made a speech, which the children liked all the better because it, too, was short; and then came the grand business of the day, the distribution of the prizes.
In the first class, that for composition was bestowed upon Kate Maynard; that for perfect lessons, upon Julia Grafton.
"Now for our little friends here," said Mr. Ashton, turning to the younger children. "The greatest number of perfect lessons has been recited by Miss Gracie Howard. She stands four ahead of any other in her class; therefore she is justly entitled to the prize;" and he held towards Gracie a box containing a prettily bound set of those little library volumes so dear to the eyes and hearts of children.
She rose and came forward to receive it with a self-satisfied air, which said, as plainly as could be without words, "Only look at me! Am I not a wonderful child? Do you not envy my father and mother?"
But, in spite of their gratification at her success, her father and mother did not feel that they were to be envied just then. It was all spoiled by the little toss of the head, the look which swept the room seeking for admiration, and the conceited air which were the outward signs of Gracie's intense vanity; and her mother thought she would far rather see her as shy and shrinking as Maggie Bradford.
Gracie courtesied when Mr. Ashton placed the books in her hand; and then stood still as if waiting—for what? So confident did she feel that the gentleman would, the next moment, call her name again, and bestow upon her the yet more coveted composition prize—that beautiful little rosewood writing-desk—that it did not seem worth while to go back to her seat; and she actually remained waiting for it, till recalled to herself by Miss Ashton's "Gracie!" and the motion of her teacher's hand directing her to take her place.
"With regard to the compositions written by this younger class," continued Mr. Ashton, "I must say that they are all very well done, remarkably so for such little girls, and show great pains taken both by the teacher and the taught. Three of them are so nearly equal in merit, that I found some difficulty in judging between them."
Three! Maggie's must be one; Gracie's another; but whose could the third be? The children looked from one to another in surprise.
"The one called 'The Angel's Wanderings,'" said Mr. Ashton, "contains a great deal of poetry and originality;"—some of the little ones wondered what that long word meant, and the royal eyes peeped up from under the royal eyelashes, half-shyly, half-delighted—oh, was it really coming to her?—"but the other two of which I have spoken excel it in some respects. These are 'Christmas Holidays' and 'A Sunday Walk;' and this last, written by Miss Nellie Ransom, I have decided on the whole to be the most worthy of the prize. The neatness and care with which this paper has been copied and presented have gone some way in fixing a choice which was somewhat difficult. Miss Nellie Ransom, my dear."
Nellie Ransom! studious, painstaking, but not remarkably clever Nellie, whom not one in the school had ever thought of as the winner of the prize. Even Miss Ashton was rather surprised, though she knew better what Nellie could do than any of her schoolmates did; but no one was more astonished than the modest little girl herself. Mr. Ashton repeated her name more than once, while she sat still in mute amazement; and, even then, she had to be urged forward by the little girls on either side of her.
"Don't you hear, Nellie? Go, Nellie. The prize is for you; go take it, Nellie," was whispered around her before she could collect herself sufficiently to go up and receive the desk from Mr. Ashton's hands.
To describe Gracie's astonishment and indignation would be quite impossible. The pretty reward she had already won had no longer any charm in her eyes, since that she had regarded as her own was lost to her. And after all her boasting! Tears of mortification and disappointment welled up to her eyes, and would not be kept back; and an angry sob, and a murmur of "It's not fair; mine was the best!" broke from her.
"Now," said Mr. Ashton, "we are to bestow what I consider the first prize of the day. You all know what that is; this paper which will give to her who wins it by the choice of her schoolmates, the power of doing good to some crippled child. This choice, I trust, will be made fairly and honestly, without partiality. I want it given to the young lady whom you all feel most truly deserves it, though she may not perhaps be the one for whom you care most. All you little ones understand me, do you not? Now, will each one write upon a slip of paper the name of the girl to whom her vote is given, and we will see who has the greatest number."
Twenty heads were presently bent over as many slips of paper; but directly Bessie rose to her feet and stood looking at Miss Ashton as if she wished permission to speak.
"Well, Bessie, what is it?" asked the young lady, wondering what was coming now, as she saw the grave, earnest face of the little girl.
"Miss Ashton," said Bessie, "I really do think my Maggie is the best, but I'm 'fraid I do feelpartialitiedto her. I couldn't help it, you know. Does it make any difference about my voting for her?"
Miss Ashton smiled, and looked at her uncle, who smiled also, and answered for her.
"None at all, little one. If you really think your Maggie deserves the prize, vote for her, by all means. I'll answer for it that your love for her makes her none the less worthy."
"Thank you, sir," answered Bessie demurely; and she sat down again, and, with great satisfaction, wrote Maggie's name in the largest possible letters.
The business of writing the names did not take long, for every girl had long since made up her mind for whom she should vote. Belle Powers was sent to collect the slips of paper, and brought them to Mr. Ashton, who, with his niece, looked over them.
"There does not seem to be much difference of opinion," he said, smiling again. "One for Maggie Bradford, four for Belle Powers, and fifteen for Bessie Bradford. My little girl, the hospital bed is yours, to give to whom you will. If you know of any child to whom it will be a help and comfort, you have also the satisfaction of knowing that you have gained it for him by your own good conduct, and the love and approbation of your schoolmates."
If Nellie had been surprised, Bessie was certainly no less so. She could scarcely believe her own ears. The hospital bed her own, to give to lame Jemmy! It seemed too good to be true. She had had a strong hope that dear little Belle would gain it; and Belle, as you know, had promised that Jemmy should have it, if it fell to her; but that she, Bessie, should be the chosen one, and that by fifteen votes!—she could not understand it.
With a flush upon her cheek, but still with a quiet, simple dignity very different from Gracie's air of supreme self-satisfaction, she rose and went forward to Mr. Ashton.
"My dear little girl," said the gentleman, looking down kindly upon her, "from what I have heard, I believe that the choice of your schoolmates has been justly made. You have looked only to the honour of God, and tried most earnestly to 'do the thing that is right;' and God has said 'Them that honour me, I will honour.' May He bless you, and keep you always in His own way."
Bessie took the folded paper he held out to her and answered, "Thank you very much, sir, and lame Jemmy will thank you very much too. He is a very good, patient boy."
"I daresay," replied Mr. Ashton; "but he has to thank you, not me."
Bessie gave him another grateful glance, and turned to go back to her seat; but as she did so she caught Kate Maynard's roguish eyes fixed upon her, their mischief softened by an expression of tender pride and congratulation, which told her that the young lady was nearly as well pleased as herself.
"O Katie!" she exclaimed, standing where she was, and forgetting for the moment that every one in the room was watching her; then turning towards her mother, and meeting her dear look of loving sympathy, all that was in her little heart proved too much for her, and, dropping the paper, she ran swiftly across the room, and buried her head in mamma's lap. How much there was in that "O Katie!" perhaps Kate herself only knew; and, although she joined in the smile which passed around, the laughing eyes were suddenly dimmed, and her hand went up to dash away one or two very suspicious-looking drops.
This last little performance on Bessie's part was not in the programme, and rather out of rule, to be sure; but, as the exercises of the day were now over, it did not so much matter.
Mamma's gentle soothing soon calmed her over-excitement, and there was Maggie, with her arms about her neck, whispering, "Bessie, I don't mind a bit about the composition prize now. I'd rather than anything that you would have this. And I'm so glad for lame Jemmy."
"Yes," said Bessie; "it was so good of the girls."
"No, it wasn't," said Belle, who was holding fast to her father's hand, and jumping up and down in an ecstasy of delight at Bessie's success; "no, it wasn't. They couldn't help it, not if they wrote the truf, and Mrs. Ashton said they must. And, Bessie, do you know, the reason you had so many votes was 'cause all the big young ladies wrote your name—every one in that class! Miss Ashton just told papa so. It's very nice to have so many give it to you, Bessie: is it not?"
Nice! Bessie thought so indeed! A happier child could not have been found than she was, as she sat with her head leaning upon her mother's breast, wearing a face of such perfect content. She had her reward indeed, not only a heart at peace with God and man, but also the longed-for gift for the crippled boy. Had she given way in that moment of temptation, it could not have come to her fairly; and where, oh, where would have been the first?
She had nothing more to wish for now.
Smiles, kisses, and congratulations were showered upon her, every one seemed to be so glad for her; and she thought it quite strange but very pleasant that so many people who did not know Jemmy should feel such an interest in his good fortune.
And there was Maggie—dear unselfish Maggie!—full of eager sympathy, and rejoicing in her joy.
"My disappointment is quite made up in this, Bessie," she said. "It makes so many more people happy than my having the desk would have done, and it will do Jemmy so much good. And then, you know, Nellie does not have half so many nice things as we do, so it is better for her to have it. She has not done being surprised yet: it was such a very unexpected blow to her that she can hardly believe it; but she is so happy about it, I couldn't help telling her I was glad for her."
"Little honey-bee, that takes all the sweet and leaves all the bitter!" said Colonel Rush, as he drew Maggie fondly towards him. "But what is our 'angel' going to say to all this? I am afraid she will feel that the 'subject' has not met with proper consideration."
"The 'subject' is too little to know now," said sunshiny Maggie; "and when she is bigger we won't tell her anything about it."
"Indeed we will," said the colonel, pushing back Maggie's curls from beneath the crown of lilies. "I shall tell her the whole story."
"I wouldn't," said Maggie; "she might have feelings about it."
"I hope she will, if they are of the proper kind," said the colonel, laughing; "and I should not be surprised if she had some opinions to express even now."
Maggie wondered what he meant; but just then some of the children spoke to her, and she forgot his words, to remember them another time.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in amusing themselves in various ways; the May Queen being throned and carried in state about house and garden; but she proved restive under this, and, as Kate said, "set a very undignified example to her subjects," by escaping from their hands, and insisting on racing and jumping upon her own nimble little feet. None who saw how joyous and merry she was, how free from every selfish thought and envious feeling, would have imagined that there had been a time when she had been too anxious for this prize which had at last fallen to another; that she had said and felt that she could never bear the disappointment of losing it. A contrast she was to Gracie, certainly, who could enjoy none of the pleasures offered to her because she had not gained that on which she had set her heart, looking, not for God's approval, but for that of man, and her own honour and glory.
On Saturday, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford drove out to Riverside, taking Maggie and Bessie with them.
So eager were the children to carry the good news to Jemmy Bent and his mother, that their parents thought it as well to go on to the cottage by the creek at once; knowing that the little girls could take small thought or enjoyment in anything else till this business was settled; therefore James was told to drive there first, instead of turning in at Grandpapa Duncan's gate.
The cottage looked rather neater and more comfortable than it did two years ago, when Maggie and Bessie first went there to see lame Jemmy. Mary was older and stronger and could do more work, and it was her pride to keep things as tidy as possible around her brother. He looked quite at his ease, sitting in his wheeled chair, which stood on the grass plat in front of the little house; and, as the carriage stopped at the gate, his pale face lighted up with surprise and pleasure when he saw whom it contained. A visit from any of Mr. Bradford's or Mr. Duncan's family was a treat to Jemmy in more ways than one.
Mrs. Bent was at home, and asked the visitors to step in; but Mrs. Bradford said they would rather stay outside for the few moments they could remain.
After asking how Jemmy was feeling, and how he enjoyed the lovely weather, Mr. Bradford told for what purpose they had come: to bring to Jemmy the ticket of admission to the hospital with all its comforts, and the possibility, evenprobability, of his being so far cured as to enable him to walk with crutches or a cane.
Maggie had imagined that Mrs. Bent and her children would be overwhelmed with delight and gratitude; and had that morning pleased herself and Bessie by describing the scene which she supposed would take place.
"Their emotions will be quite too much for them, Bessie," she had said; "at least they ought to be, and I s'pose they will, for that's always the way in things you read about. They'll be so full of surprise and joy and gratitude they won't know what to do with themselves."
But, to the astonishment and indignation of both children, especially of Maggie, Mrs. Bent's "emotions" took quite a different turn from what they had expected. She burst into tears, and wrung her hands, exclaiming, "O sir! I never could, no, never could! To send my poor boy away from me! Oh no, sir! no, indeed! And to one of them hospitals too! I'd never do it—not if I work my fingers to the bone!"
And Mary, seeing her mother so excited, began to cry too at the thought of parting with the brother who had been such a care to her for so long; while poor Jemmy, who had felt grateful and pleased beyond measure at the prospect of receiving such care and help as would make him less helplessly crippled than he was now, gazed at his mother in dismay; and our little girls stood looking on, thoroughly crestfallen and disappointed at this reception of their offer.
"Mrs. Bent," said Mrs. Bradford kindly, "I know it seems hard for you to part from your helpless boy, even for a time; but surely you will not refuse to let him go when you think of the benefit it will be to him. Could you not bear this lesser sorrow for the sake of seeing Jemmy able to move about by himself? You can see him now and then; I will myself take care that you have the means to reach him; and in a year or so, perhaps less, he may come back to you, able to do something for himself, it may be even to be a help to you. I am sure he has the will for that, if he had but the way and the strength. Is it not so, Jemmy?"
Jemmy smiled, and put out his poor thin hand gratefully to the lady; then broke forth,—
"O mother! let me go, do let me go! Oh, if you knew what it was to lie here! I do try to be patient, and I'm willing to stay so, if the Lord thinks it best; but sure He's sent us this hope, and you won't throw it away. Say you won't, mother, and let me try; and oh, do thank the dear lady and gentleman and the little ladies!"
"Let me speak to you a moment, Mrs. Bent," said Mr. Bradford; and, calling her aside, he showed her all the advantage the place would be to Jemmy, and soon talked her into a more reasonable and gentle mood, while Mrs. Bradford spoke cheerfully to Jemmy and his sister of all the comforts and pleasures which would be furnished for him in this refuge for such poor crippled children as he.
No fear about Jemmy. He was eager enough about it to satisfy the children, and Mary too could not now be sufficiently grateful for the care and kindness offered to her brother.
"You'll please to excuse me, ma'am," said Mrs. Bent, coming back; "and I see now it's kindness itself in the dear little ladies that have been such good friends to my boy from the first, and a great blessing for him; but at the first it seemed cruel like to send him from me, and as if I was willing to be rid of him."
So it was talked of a little more, and the arrangements made for moving Jemmy to the hospital in a few days, when the place would be vacant and ready for him. By the time this was done, Mrs. Bent could look at the thing in its proper light, and was profuse enough of thanks and blessings. But the first impression was not readily done away with; and when they left, Bessie took her seat in the carriage with a very sober face; and Maggie, who was highly disgusted with Mrs. Bent, broke forth with some opinions by no means complimentary to that good woman.
"Well," said Grandpapa Duncan, when he had heard all about the prizes, and the visit to Jemmy, "I am sure our lame boy will say that your going to school has been a great blessing to him, since it has brought this about."
"Why, yes," said Maggie thoughtfully, "so it has. I'm sure I'd never have thought our going to school could be of use to Jemmy. Doesn't it seem queer, grandpapa? But it was all Bessie. I'd never have earned that prize."
"Yes, she would, grandpapa," said Bessie. "Miss Kate told me so yesterday. She said if they had not voted for me, all the large class would have voted for Maggie, 'cause they thought she was so true and good about Gracie's composition; so I told Maggie this morning it was just as much her present to Jemmy as mine. And we always like to be halves in things, grandpapa. And I told Miss Kate, Maggie deserved it more than me, 'cause I was very tempted about the composition, and she was not one bit."
"But she knew better than that, and I'm glad of it," said Maggie, with a decided nod of her curly head.
"She didn't say so," replied her sister: "she only said, 'O Bessie!' and just kissed me."
"There's a letter and a large parcel for Miss Maggie on the library-table," said Patrick, when they reached home that afternoon.
"A letter for me? Oh, lovely!" said Maggie; and away she ran, with Bessie after her, both eager to see what the parcel contained, and whom the letter was from.
The parcel was a large one, carefully wrapped up, and the letter lay upon it.
"Why, that's Uncle Horace's monogram! What can he be writing to me about when he saw me yesterday, and will see me again to-morrow? I just expect this is another of his lovely surprises—the dear, precious lamb!" said Maggie, who, provided an epithet came handy, was not always particular as to how it fitted. "Let's open the parcel first."
No sooner said than done; and, when opened, it was found to contain a rosewood writing-desk, the very counterpart of the one given yesterday by Mr. Ashton to Nellie Ransom. The children at first took it to be the very same.
"Why, it's Nellie's prize!" exclaimed Maggie.
"Was there a mistake about it, and did they like your composition the best after all, and send it to you, I wonder?" said Bessie.
"If they did, I wouldn't take it now," said Maggie; "it would be too mean to Nellie. But let's see what Uncle Horace says."
The letter was quickly unsealed, and there appeared a long line of verses. Maggie was in too much of a hurry to try and make out for herself Colonel Rush's rather illegible handwriting, and she rushed with it to her father.
"Papa, papa! please read it for us. May Bessie's name is at the end of all this lot of po'try, but we know very well her papa made it up; and we are in such a hurry to know about the desk. Please read it for us right away."
Papa took the letter, and read aloud the following verses:—
"My dear cousin Maggie,—for 'cousin' you are,Since your 'uncle' and 'aunt' my papa and mamma,—You will be much surprised when this letter you see,To find that it comes from a 'subject' like me.
"But papa and mamma—I have heard 'Love is blind'Declare I've a very remarkable mind;That I'm 'lovely' and 'perfect,' I'm 'brilliant' and 'wise,'That I'm really a 'wonderful child of her size.'
"Mamma sits by my cradle, and murmurs these thingsIn the pauses of all the sweet songs that she sings;While into the pillow I nestle my head,And smile with approval at all that is said.
"Then she says 'sister-angels are whispering to me.'Who besides her sweet self? for papa it can't be,No 'angel' is he. I can't quite makehimout.Of mamma and myself, you'll perceive, I've no doubt.
"Your prize compositionIthink very fine,And I'm a good judge, you'll allow, Maggie mine:Your 'subject' well chosen; ideas well expressed;To my baby-notions 'tis clearly the best.
"But on one point, dear Maggie, you make a mistake;Your faith in my father I rudely must shake.You call this same soldier the 'bravest of braves,'Now listen, and hear how this Colonel behaves.
"Whene'er I determine to take a good cry,—A most innocent treat when no strangers are nigh!—Why, what does this hero of so many fields,But snatch up his cane, and then take to his heels.
"'What a coward!' you'll say. Yes, indeed, 'tis most strange;For whene'er I do cry, it is but for a change;One cannot be cooing and smiling all day,Sometimes I have tried that, but find it don't pay.
"But one thing, dear Maggie, you've made very clear,That I am 'an angel' doth plainly appear;Then mamma says the same, and I know you're both true:I believe it myself,—between me and you.
"Excuse my bad grammar, I must make the rhyme,I'll do better some day, if you'll but give me time;And, as for my manners, I'm sure that I meanNot the least disrespect to our little May Queen.
"Yes, I fully believe such a 'treasure' as IMust have flown from some spot very near to the sky;And I know gentle spiritsdowhisper to me,And teach me sweet lessons of what I must be.
"They tell me I must be a good little child,A baby obedient, patient, and mild;They tell me to love all the good and the true,And therefore, dear Maggie, I have to love you.
"And Bessie, the darling! she, too, has some claimsFor her own precious sake, to say nothing of names,But my own sweet 'ersample' she says she will be:They tell me to profit by what I may see.
"But now let's to business. I think you approveOf doing kind 'favours' for those whom we love;And if they deserve it, why, so much the better,For here is the gist of this wonderful letter.
"I must own, my dear cousin, I thought it a shameThis prize for fine writing fell not to your name.In the judge's decision I can't quite agree,So, dear little maiden, it seemeth to me
"That your 'subject' herself should do what she can;And, after some thought, I have hit on this plan:To send you this prize for the story you tellOf the 'angel' who loves you so truly and well,
"But remember, my darling, you always will findThat a heart that is generous, truthful, and kind,Where self and deceit and envyings hardNo entrance can find, is its own best reward.
"And the smile of the Shepherd, who dwells up above,And watches His lambs with the tenderest love,Will always be ours when the victory we win,By the help of His grace in the conflict with sin.
"And now this long letter I'll bring to a close,The thought it has cost me, oh, nobody knows!With much love to yourself, and to Bessie the same,I'll say no more, Maggie, but just sign my name,"Your 'subject,' MAY BESSIE."
Maggie went into ecstasies of delight over this letter, as well as over the beautiful gift which accompanied it; but Bessie, although she shared to the full her sister's pleasure in the latter, could not be persuaded to say she thought the verses so very fine.
"Why, what's the matter with it?" said Maggie, "I think it's lovely."
"I don't think it's so very nice," answered Bessie, gravely regarding the letter with an air of comic displeasure.
"Well," said Maggie, "maybe it's not so very po'try, but it jingle-jangles so nicely. I wish you would like it."
"I do like what it says about you and May Bessie," said Bessie; "but it's not nice about my soldier at all. He's not a coward."
"Oh, that's only for fun!" said Maggie. "You know that it's onlypretendthat May Bessie wrote it. The colonel did it himself; and he always does run away when the baby cries."
"Yes," said matter-of-fact Bessie, half unwilling to admit even so much against her hero; "but that does not make him a coward. But, Maggie darling, I couldn't speak about how glad I am that this very lovely surprise has come to you. And I think this is better than if you had the real prize in school."
"Oh yes, a great deal better!" said Maggie. "Mr. Ashton is very good and kind; but then he is not any one of ours, and it's a great deal more pleasure to have a prize from our own May Bessie than from him. And besides, Bessie, I don't know how Icouldhave walked up and taken it before all those people. Sometimes I thought I would almost rather not have the prize than do that."
But if the letter was not altogether to Bessie's satisfaction, the desk certainly proved so; and it was long before she and Maggie tired of examining it and its complete fitting out. The first use Maggie made of it was to answer May Bessie's letter, which she did in rhyme, rather halting rhyme it was now and then, to be sure; but she and Bessie were satisfied that it was a gem of poetry; and, as the baby found no fault with it, we must take it for granted that she thought so also.
It was delightful, too, to see how pleased all the schoolgirls, large and small, were to hear of Maggie's good fortune, and to read the letter from May Bessie, which she permitted them all to see.
"Miss Kate," said Maggie, looking up into the laughing eyes which were no longer a terror to her, "it's very kind of you to be so glad for me."
"Do you think so?" said Kate. "I am truly glad for you, Maggie. We are better friends than we used to be, are we not?"
"Oh yes," said Maggie; "partly 'cause I'm not so shy as I used to be, and partly 'cause you have improved a good deal in doing unto others. You do not tease half as much as you used to, Miss Kate."
"Thank you for the compliment," said Kate, laughing and tossing Maggie's long curls about her face till they covered it as with a veil.
"Maybe Miss Kate wanted the best girl prize, and knew she would not have any chance if she teased so much," said Belle.
"Much chance I'd have of 'the best girl prize,' as you call it," said Kate. "No, Belle; I never set myself up for that."
"But you ought, oughtn't you?" said Belle, with solemn gravity.
"Ought what?" asked Kate. "To be the best girl in the school?"
"No," answered the child; "but to try to be."
"And take the prize from your Bessie!" said Kate, pretending to be shocked at the idea.
"No," said Belle, who sometimes presumed on being a privileged character, and said things to the older girls which none of the other little ones would have dared to say. "No, Miss Kate, I don't think there's goodness enough in you forthat. But you might try to be the best that you could."
"What would be the good when there was no chance of the prize?" asked Kate, much amused.
"To please Jesus," said Belle. "Bessie's mamma told us about that that time I lived there while papa was away. She said we must only try to do the thing that was right, 'cause it was right, no matter what people thought of us; not to try to be or to do the best so as to be rewarded."
"Well done, little Belle," said Fanny Berry; "how nicely you have remembered and repeated your lesson!"
"But I didn't always remember to do it," said Belle; "not that time I climbed on the wall. I made believe in my heart I was not doing anything naughty; but myself knew I was, and God knew I was too; and so He gave me good enough for me."
The girls laughed.
"Bessie always keeps the truf in her heart," said Belle, looking fondly after her little friend, who had run into the other room to tell Miss Ashton about Maggie's gift; "and I think that's the reason she always keeps it in her living."
"Yes," said Julia Grafton; "that is it."
"I think we've all improved a little over these prizes," said Maggie.
"'Cept only Gracie," said Belle; "she's dis-improved very much. She is not half so nice as she used to be."
"But we won't remember the faults of others now," said Miss Ashton, who just then came back with Bessie to congratulate Maggie. "I am glad to say that I think more good than harm has come from these prizes, though I feared at first it might be the contrary. I think, with Maggie, that almost all have improved, some in one way, some in another. Lessons have been learned by us, which were not learned in books; and I am thankful that little, if any, jealousy, unkindness, or hard feeling has arisen among you; and that a true generosity and willingness for the success of others have been shown in more than one instance. I was a little doubtful of the plan when my uncle first proposed it; but it has really been of service in more ways than one."
"Mamma said it would do us no harm to try for those things, if we did not let ourselves become too anxious," said Maggie.
"No," said Miss Ashton; "not so long as we do so from a right motive, and remember that the praise of God is more to be desired than the praise of man. He has said 'those that honour Him, He will honour;' and I think we have proved it so here in school."
This was the last day of school for our Maggie and Bessie; and, sorry as they were to leave their kind teachers and pleasant companions, they were delighted at the thought of all the pleasure promised to them this coming summer, and at the hope of having mamma give them lessons again in the fall.
They were first to spend a few days at Riverside, going there with Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie; and a little later were to travel with papa and mamma, winding up the summer at dear old Chalecoo, where they had already passed one such pleasant season. Such visions of wonder and delight danced before their minds; such "adventures" as Maggie expected to meet with, furnishing "subjects" for endless compositions, to say nothing of the continued history of the "Complete Family;" such plans for the help and comfort of dear mamma, who had said she was sure this trip, undertaken for her good, would be of a great deal more service to her if she were allowed to have her little girls with her; such letters as they were to write to console those who were left behind;—why, there was no end to them all, and, fast as the little tongues were accustomed to chatter, Maggie declared that the days were not half long enough for all the thinking and talking they had to do now.
And now, like their schoolmates, we must say good-bye to Maggie and Bessie; and I hope you have found that earning her prize was not the only or the holiest work for her Master done by our Bessie at School.
THE END
W. JOLLY & SONS, PRINTERS, ABERDEEN