The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBessie at schoolThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Bessie at schoolAuthor: Joanna H. MathewsRelease date: October 27, 2024 [eBook #74645]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: George Routledge and Sons, Limited, 1869Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BESSIE AT SCHOOL ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Bessie at schoolAuthor: Joanna H. MathewsRelease date: October 27, 2024 [eBook #74645]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: George Routledge and Sons, Limited, 1869Credits: Al Haines
Title: Bessie at school
Author: Joanna H. Mathews
Author: Joanna H. Mathews
Release date: October 27, 2024 [eBook #74645]
Language: English
Original publication: London: George Routledge and Sons, Limited, 1869
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BESSIE AT SCHOOL ***
"In an instant Katie Maynard snatched her up in her arms."--p. 62"In an instant Katie Maynard snatched her up in her arms."—p. 62
BY
JOANNA H. MATHEWS
"Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things."
"He that speaketh the truth in his heart."
LONDONGEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LIMITEDBROADWAY HOUSE, 68-74 CARTER LANE, E.C.
TOTHE SUNBEAM OF OUR BRIGHT HOME,MY SISTER GERTRUDE
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I.A SURPRISEII.GRANDMAMMA'S STORYIII.SCHOOLIV.SCHOOLMATESV.THE PRIZESVI.BELLEVII.THE HURT FOOTVIII.THE BROKEN CLOCKIX.THE CONFESSIONX.A LITTLE LIGHTXI.ABOUT "OUR FATHER'S" WORKXII.BESSIE'S PARTYXIII.LOST AND FOUNDXIV.THE AWARDXV.A LETTER
PREFACE
The author had intended that "Bessie among the Mountains" should close the series; but the entreaties of her young readers for "more Bessie books" have induced the publishers and herself to extend it somewhat further.
The following gratifying and touching communication is given here in the hope that this may meet the eye of her little unknown correspondent,—who has not given her residence,—and that she will send word where a letter may reach her:—
"DEAR LADY,—I love you for you write such nice Bessie books and I want to see you but I dont kno where you live and papa says I can send this to Mr. Carter. Please write a 100 Bessie books Bessie in truble and Bessie in plesure Bessie sick Bessie well and all. But not her mama to go to heven for my mama and the baby went to heven and I cry abot it yet and I want my mama in my hoeme. I am name Bessie but not so nice as book Bessie and I have 2 Maggies one my sister nice and good and one not nice and only a chamermade and dirty. And I love you dear lady and here is a kiss [kiss] for you.
BESSIE——."
But, pleased as the writer is with this precious little letter, she feels that "a 100 Bessie books" would tire even this enthusiastic young reader; and so, if the little friends who have gone with Maggie and Bessie to the seaside and the mountains, who have visited them in their home and accompanied them to school, will by and by go with them on their travels, we will afterwards say good-bye to them, with kind wishes on both sides, and the hope that there may be other children in some corner of her brain whose acquaintance will not be less agreeable than that of our Maggie and Bessie.
J. H. M.
BESSIE AT SCHOOL.
Bessie lay fast asleep upon mamma's sofa, for she and Maggie had been with Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie for a long drive; and the little one, quite tired, had curled herself up among the cushions, and still was nestling there, unconscious of all that was passing.
Mamma thought it a good thing that her delicate little girl could drop off to sleep so easily, and so gain the rest she needed after any fatigue; but wide-awake Maggie thought it rather a troublesome fashion of Bessie's, and wondered that any one, who was not obliged to do it, could "waste being alive in taking naps."
But just now she did not mind this quite as much as usual, for she was sitting on a low stool at her mother's feet, busy copying a letter to Mrs. Porter which she and Bessie had composed together. For Maggie no longer printed her letters and compositions, but wrote them in a large round hand, quite easy to read. But, in order to do it well, she had to pay close attention to her writing; and, since Bessie could not help her, she was contented to have her lie quietly asleep on the sofa for the time. Mrs. Bradford was leaning back upon the pillows in her easy-chair, looking so pale and thin and weak that even a child could have told that she had been ill.
Indeed she had been—the dear, precious mamma!—so ill, that for some days it seemed as if she were to be taken from her little ones. But the merciful Father above had heard and granted the prayers of all the loving hearts whose earthly happiness she made, and hope and joy came back to the pleasant home from which, for a time, they had flown away. It had been a great delight to Maggie and Bessie to see her walk into the nursery, leaning on papa's arm, that morning; and even baby Annie seemed to know it was something to rejoice at, for she came toddling to her mamma, and hid her face in her skirts, with a sweet, crowing laugh, which was full of joy and love.
And when, a little while after, Bessie sat looking earnestly at her mother, with eyes which seemed as if they could not take their fill, and was asked by her of what she was thinking, the answer was,—
"I was thinking two things, mamma. One was, what a very great thanksgiving we ought to make; and the other was, how very disappointed the angels must be, not to have you in heaven, after all."
"Oh," said Maggie, "I guess the angels are too glad for us to be very sorry for their own disappointment."
But though mamma was much better, she was still very feeble, and it was necessary that she should be very careful not to fatigue or excite herself; and the doctor said it would be some weeks, perhaps months, before she would be able to go about her usual duties and occupations.
A book lay upon Mrs. Bradford's lap, but she was not reading. She sat watching the busy fingers of her little daughter with a look that was somewhat anxious and troubled.
"There!" said Maggie at last, looking up from her letter with a satisfied air; "when Bessie has put her name under mine it will be all done. Do you think Mrs. Porter will be able to make it out, mamma?"
"If she does not, I think it will be the fault of her eyes, and not of my Maggie's fingers," said Mrs. Bradford, smiling as she looked at the large, plain letters upon the sheet which Maggie held up before her. "That is very well done, my daughter; and Mrs. Porter will be gratified when she sees how much pains you have taken."
Well pleased at her mother's praise, which she certainly deserved, Maggie carefully laid by her letter until Bessie should be awake to sign it, and then came back to mamma's side for a little petting and loving.
"Maggie, darling," said Mrs. Bradford presently, laying her thin hand caressingly on the rosy cheek which nestled against her shoulder, "how should you like to go to school?"
Maggie raised her head quickly.
"O mamma!" she exclaimed.
Mrs. Bradford had fully expected to see just such a look, and hear just such a tone; but she only said, "Well, dear?"
"Mamma, I never could bear it—never, never. Why, I suppose you would not teach us any longer then; and besides, mamma, strange girls go to school, do they not?"
"Girls who are strangers to you, you mean, dear?"
"Yes'm."
"Well, yes," said Mrs. Bradford slowly, for this was even a greater trial to her than it was to Maggie. "I suppose there would be some girls whom you did not know, but not a great many; for it would be but a small class to which I should send you. Do you remember that pleasant Miss Ashton whom you saw here one day, just after we came home from Chalecoo?"
"Yes'm; and we liked her looks so much."
"Well, she is going to have a class of little girls for two or three hours each day. Lily Norris, Gracie Howard, and one or two others whom you know, are to join it; and she came here to know if I would like you to do so. But I wished still to teach you myself this winter, and said 'no.' But now that I have been so ill, I feel that I must give up this pleasure, for it will not do for you to lose so much time. So, as Miss Ashton has still one or two places to be filled, I think I shall send you to her. You will not find it hard after the first day or two. Miss Ashton is a very kind, gentle young lady; you already know several of your classmates, and with the rest you will soon become acquainted. Miss Ashton's mother is to have a class of older girls, but they will be in another room, and need not interfere with you. With all this to make it easy and agreeable for you, do you not think you will be able to bear it?"
"I could not; indeed, mamma, I could not," said Maggie, making a great effort to speak steadily.
"Not if it would be a great help to your sick mother, dear?"
Maggie swallowed the lump in her throat, winked her eyes very hard to keep back the tears, and answered, "Yes, if it would be that, I could, mamma. I think I would do anything that would be a help to you, even if it did hurt my own feelings dreadfully."
"My own dear little girl!" said Mrs. Bradford, tenderly kissing the flushed face which looked up into hers so wistfully. "But I do not believe you will find this as hard a trial as you imagine, Maggie. After the first day or two, I hope you will not only be quite willing to go to school, but that you will really take pleasure in it."
Maggie shook her head very dolefully.
"That could never be, mamma; but I will try not to feel too badly about it. But," with a look at her sleeping sister, "I am glad Bessie won't mind it so much as I will. She'll feel very badly to know you're not going to teach us any more, but then she won't care so much about the strange girls and the strange school."
Mrs. Bradford looked troubled. She had not imagined that Maggie thought she meant to send Bessie to school also, and now that she saw this was so, she knew what a blow it would be to the poor child to hear that her sister was not to go.
"My darling," she said, "we do not intend—your father and I—to send Bessie to school this winter. We think her too young, and not strong enough, and that much study would not be good for her."
Poor Maggie! This was more than she had bargained to "bear," the one drop too much in her full cup. She could no longer choke back her tears, but fell into a passion of sobbing and crying which her mother found it impossible for some minutes to quiet. It was only the recollection that her mamma was not to be worried, which at last helped the child to conquer it. And it was Bessie who put her in mind of this; for her sobs had roused her little sister, who, waking and slipping down from the sofa, came running to know what could be the matter with her usually merry, cheerful Maggie.
"Maggie, dear," said the thoughtful Bessie, "I'm very sorry for you, but you know the doctor said mamma was not to have anyercitementor 'sturbance, and I'm 'fraid you're making one for her. I s'pose you forgot."
In another moment Maggie had checked her loud sobs, though the tears would not be controlled just yet; and, looking from her to her mother's anxious face, a new fear came into Bessie's mind.
"Mamma," she said, looking wistfully up at her mother, "is our Father going to make you worse again, and take you away from us after all?"
"No, my darling; I trust not," said Mrs. Bradford. "Maggie's trouble is by no means so great a one as that—is it, dear Maggie? I have just been telling her that she is to go to school this winter, and she is rather distressed; but she will soon feel better about it. She will only be away for two or three hours each day, and will soon be quite accustomed to her new teacher and her classmates, and learn to like them."
Bessie looked very sober, and, after a moment, she said, with a long sigh,—
"Well, dear mamma, you know it is a pretty great trial to think you can't teach us now; but we'll try not to mind it so much as to make you feel bad, and maybe I can help Maggie to get used to the girls and the teacher, 'cause you know I am not so shy as she is, and I s'pose I'll 'come acquainted with them sooner than she will. And if we don't like the other girls very much, we won't mind it when we have each other—need we, Maggie?" and she took her sister's hand with a tender, protecting air, which was both amusing and touching to see.
So the little one herself was also taking it for granted that, since Maggie was to go to school, she was to go too.
It was only natural, as the mother knew. They had never been separated. One never half enjoyed a pleasure unless the other shared it; and all their childish troubles were made lighter and easier to bear, because they were together, and could give comfort and help to one another; and Mrs. Bradford was sure it would be as great a blow to Bessie as it had been to Maggie to know that they were to be parted even for two or three hours each day.
"But I mean to keep my Bessie at home with me," she said, trying to speak cheerfully; "and every day, when Maggie comes back, she will tell us all she has seen and learned; and it will be nice to watch for her, and have some little pleasure ready for her when she returns to us, will it not?"
"Mamma," said Bessie, struggling with herself, lest she too should break down in tears, and so distress her mother, but still speaking with a very quivering voice,—"Mamma, you never could mean that Maggie is to go to school without me, could you? You are making rather a bad joke, are you not?"
The beseeching voice, the pleading eyes, and trembling lips, went straight to the mother's heart, and would not let her smile at the innocent ending of Bessie's speech.
"I really mean what I say, darling," she answered. "Papa and I have talked it all over; and, although we know it is hard for you and Maggie to be separated even for a little while, we do not think it best for you to go. You are not very strong, and it would not be well for you to study much for a year or two. If you were with other children, you might try too hard, for you know you do not like to be left behind; and as you can read pretty well now, we think we will let you be a lazy little girl for this winter, and keep you at home to take care of mamma."
"Mamma," said Bessie earnestly, "you know I'd rather be with you than anywhere, even with my own Maggie; and I only want to go to school on 'count of Maggie's sake. But you have a great many people to take care of you, 'cause papa or grandmamma or one of the aunties stays with you all the time; and poor Maggie would be so very lonesome without any of her own people. And, mamma, it seems pretty queer to want a little girl to be lazy; but, if you'd like me to, I'll be so very lazy that Miss Ashton will say, 'Go to the ant, thou sluggard!'"
Mrs. Bradford could not help smiling; but she said, "That might do, dear, if Miss Ashton were to teach no one but yourself and Maggie; but she would probably think it would not answer to have a little girl in her class who could not do as the others did. She might say it would be a bad example, or that the rest might think it was not fair."
"But, mamma," pleaded Bessie, "don't you think if you told Miss Ashton how very fond Maggie and I are of each other, and how badly she would feel if she had to go without me, it might have a little persuasion for her? You know you were very kind to her when her father died, and maybe she would like to have some gratitude for you."
"I daresay Miss Ashton would be very glad to please me, Bessie; but she has to consider not so much what she would like, as what is right and best to do. However, she is coming here this afternoon for my answer about Maggie, and I will ask her if she can make any arrangement that will do for you. If she can, then we will see what papa says; but I do not wish either of you to think too much about it, lest you should be disappointed in the end."
Mamma talked to them a little longer, trying to persuade them to look on the bright side of this, to them, great trouble; till Bessie, noticing how weak her voice was, and how pale she looked, asked if she were not tired. Mamma said, "yes," and that she thought she must rest a while if she were to see Miss Ashton that afternoon.
This was enough for the tender little nurses; and grandmamma, who had left them in charge, coming in soon after, found Mrs. Bradford asleep on the sofa, with Maggie gently rubbing her feet and Bessie as softly threading her fingers through her mother's hair. But, quiet as they were, their thoughts were very busy and their hearts very full; and Maggie, contrary to her usually cheerful spirit, had been imagining all kinds of disagreeable occurrences which might happen to her at school, and looking upon herself quite as a little martyr; and now, as her grandmamma nodded and smiled at her, she was surprised, not only to see the traces of tears on her cheeks, but also that her eyes were still swimming; while Bessie's face wore the piteous look it always did when anything had distressed her. Seeing that Mrs. Bradford was fast asleep, and would not be disturbed if her children ceased their loving tending, she beckoned them into their own room, where, sitting down on a low chair she lifted Bessie on her lap, and, drawing Maggie to her, asked what had grieved them.
Their trouble was soon told; but grandmamma, having known before that the thing was to be, was not surprised, nor as shocked as Maggie had expected and hoped she would be. Now, perhaps some of you little girls, who know what a happy, pleasant place a school may be, will think our Maggie very foolish to dread it so much; but those among you who are shy and timid will have some idea of how she felt. Her fear of strangers was really a great cross to her, and she would even sometimes refuse some offered pleasure rather than be thrown with people whom she did not know. This was one reason why her mamma thought it was better for her to go to school, that being with other children might help to rub off this uncomfortable shyness, so troublesome to herself and her friends.
"Mr. Porter said once," said Maggie, when Bessie had finished her doleful story, "that God sometimes had to take away our blessings to teach us how much they were worth; and I'm afraid it's just for that He is punishing me this way, for I don't think I ever knew till now what a great blessing it was to have mamma teach me, and sometimes I even used to feel a little cross when she called us to our lessons. So I s'pose, when I was so ungrateful, He thought it was just good enough for me to go to a hateful old school, full of strange girls and a strange teacher and everything, and not Bessie to go, nor any one who loves me. Oh dear! oh dear!" and Maggie now gave way to the tears and sobs which she had checked before, for fear they should distress her sick mother.
Her grandmamma let her cry for a few moments, thinking it might make her feel better; but, when she was quieter, she said gently, "I do not think you are looking at this quite in the right way, dear Maggie."
"How, grandmamma?" asked Maggie, wiping her eyes.
"To look at it as a punishment, dear. I know this is a trial for you, indeed it seems to you now like a great hardship, though I trust you will learn to feel differently about it. But God does not always send trials as punishments."
"What then, grandmamma?"
"Well, He may send troubles to us to work out some good purpose of His own that we cannot know of, or they may even be sent as blessings, though we do not see it at the time."
"Oh," said Maggie, "I s'pose that was what Aunt Helen meant the other day when she talked about 'blessings in disguise.'"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Stanton; "but do you know what disguise means, Maggie?"
"Yes'm," said Maggie. "It means to dress yourself up so that nobody would know you; and if my going to school is a blessing, I think it is a very disguised oneindeed."
Mrs. Stanton could not help smiling a little, though she was sorry to hear Maggie's rebellions tone.
"Grandmamma," said Bessie, "do you think our Father has a purpose in having Maggie go to school?"
"Yes, dear. We may always be sure that whatever He orders for us is for some wise and holy purpose of His own. It may be He sees this will be good for Maggie, or He may have some work for her to do for Him."
"But I know I could work and study a great deal better at home with my own mamma and my own Bessie, than I could in a hateful school with a cross, ugly teacher," said Maggie.
"O Maggie!" said Bessie, "Miss Ashton is not ugly. Don't you know we thought she looked so nice and pleasant? And I don't believe she is cross either, or mamma would not let you go to her."
"No," said grandmamma: "Miss Ashton is neither cross nor ugly; but Maggie is looking at her and at her school through the spectacles of discontent, which hide all that is good, and make all that is bad appear far, far worse than the reality. Take them off, Maggie, and look at things with your own honest, cheerful, eyes. It may be that the great Teacher above has some lesson for you to learn that you do not know of—some special work for you to do for Him."
"I don't see how a little girl like me could do any work for Him in school, except to learn my lessons well," said Maggie, "and I could do that at home."
"When you were at Chalecoo last summer, did not the Lord Jesus give you work to do for Him, such as you had no thought of?"
"Yes," said Maggie, softened at once; "and it was a very happy work; and I am very glad He made us of a heart to do it."
"And if you ask Him, darling, He will always give you a heart to do the work He puts in your way," said grandmamma.
"But, grandmamma," said Maggie, "how could I find work for Him in school? Miss Ashton would not have children like Lem and Dolly in her class."
"No," answered Mrs. Stanton. "The children you will meet there are all probably more or less well taught; but you may still find something to do for Jesus. But the work which He gives us is not always that which we have chosen or planned for ourselves. It may be that your task will be only that of which you have just spoken—to learn your lessons well, to be obedient and respectful to Miss Ashton, gentle and patient with your schoolmates; yet all may be done for the love of Jesus, and to His glory and praise. There is a lovely hymn which asks that one may be made more careful to please God perfectly than to serve Him much. That means that it is far more pleasing to Him to have us take up cheerfully and gratefully the small duty which lies straight before us, than it is to have us pass that by while we search for some more grand task, or self-sacrifice, which we may choose to think is His work. I can tell you a story of a great mistake which I made in that way once. Would you like to hear it?"
The children both assented eagerly, and settled themselves comfortably to listen to grandmamma's story.
"I was a good deal older than either of you," said Mrs. Stanton, "when the things happened of which I am going to tell you, for I was nearly fourteen years of age; but still the story may interest and be of use to you.
"Up to that time, I had always been taught at home, partly by a governess, who also taught my younger sisters, Emily and Bertha, partly by my father, who was a man fond of study, and who took great pleasure in teaching what he knew to others, especially his own children. I was a scholar after his own heart, for I learned easily and with little trouble to myself or my instructors; and I had a wonderful memory, which seldom let anything slip which I had once heard or studied. I was very proud of my ready memory, forgetting that it was quite as much a gift from God as beauty, riches, or any other good thing which He gives to His creatures. I may say, now, that I was really very forward for my age; and my father and mother also took great pride in me, particularly the former, who was anxious to show off my learning on every occasion.
"A great many gentlemen used to visit at our house, friends of my father, and men who, like himself, were fond of books and study; and they used to have long talks on these things. Sometimes they would differ about a name, a date, or some fact; and often, at such times, my father would call me, and tell me to settle the disputed point. I could generally answer correctly, and then our friends would go on asking question after question, perhaps to find out how much I really knew, perhaps only to amuse themselves with my vanity; while I, encouraged by my father, who did not know the harm he was doing me, and with my silly little head quite turned by the praise and notice I received, was only too glad to show off all I knew. Indeed, I was quite disappointed whenever any of these friends left the house, and I had not been called upon for any such display.
"When I was nearly fourteen years of age, my dear mother had a long illness; and, as soon as she was able to travel, the doctors said that she must go away for a year at least. Emily had not been well for some time, and it was decided that she was to go too; while Bertie and I were to be sent to boarding-school during their absence. That was a far worse trial than going to school for two or three hours each day, knowing that your own dear mamma is here for you to come back to; was it not, Maggie?"
"Yes'm," said Maggie, with a loving glance through the open door at her sleeping mother; "but then, grandmamma, you know you were such a big girl; and I suppose you were not shy either, if you had so much courage to talk to the grown gentlemen. Grandmamma, I don't think you can know how uncomfortable it is for a child to be shy. Oh, I do wish I could come over it."
"Overcome it, you mean," said grandmamma. "Well, dear Maggie, do you know that I think this very thing which you dread so much—going to school—may help you to do so. And it would be a good thing if it were so, for this troublesome shyness not only interferes with one's own pleasure and comfort, but often with one's usefulness to others. But to go on with my story. Great girl though I was, and bolder, perhaps, than became my years, the parting from my father and mother was a terrible trial to me, and I shed many bitter tears over it. The thing which gave me most comfort was the thought of all I would do while they were gone, and how I would astonish them with my improvement on their return. I not only meant to study so hard that I should put myself at the head of all my classes, and take most, if not all, of the prizes; but I also begged my father to write out a list of books of history and travels which I might read during my play-hours, and asked to be allowed to take up one or two extra studies. He readily agreed; but my mother shook her head, and said, if my time and thoughts were to be so taken up with my books, she feared I would not give much attention to little Bertie.
"Bertie was mother's great anxiety in leaving home. She was only seven years old—a timid, clinging child, shrinking from strangers, and always wanting to be petted and cuddled by those she loved. She had never been really sick, but she was not strong; and mother gave her into my special care with so many charges to be kind and tender to her, that I felt impatient and half-vexed that she should think they were needed. Alas, she knew me better than I knew myself.
"Our parents had secured some little favours at the school for us, among others that of a room to ourselves; and this they had furnished comfortably and prettily, so that we might have been very contented and happy there together, if it bad not been for my vanity and selfishness; or, perhaps I should say, the strange mistakes I made as to my duty.
"For the first day or two we were both heartbroken, and I petted Bertie and sorrowed with her; but, after that, I turned to my books, and had no time or thought for anything else. True, I did not neglect my little sister's bodily comfort. Every morning I washed and dressed her with my own hands, and curled her long, fair ringlets; each night I undressed her and tucked her in her bed—nor was it done hastily or impatiently, but with care and patience. But while I was at my task—for so I thought it—of tending her, my book lay open on my lap, and I learned long poems or lists of names and dates, and poor Bertie was never suffered to speak to me. I always had an hour to myself at the time when I put her to bed, and I might have spent it with her, had I chosen to do so. But no; although the little homesick child used to beg me to stay with her and talk of mother, I was always in haste to go to the books which father had marked for me. Many a time when I went up to bed I found her awake, restless and nervous; or, if she was sleeping, her pillow and face were wet with tears. During play-hours she used to hang about me, longing for love and comfort; but, although I never sent her from me, I had no time to give her the petting and sympathy she needed.
"Saturdays, when we had a holiday, and Sundays were no better, perhaps rather worse; for then Bertie was more lonely and homesick than when she was in school, and I was just as busy as on other days.
"On Sunday mornings we were obliged to go to church and Sunday-school; but in the afternoon we were allowed to do as we pleased, provided there was no loud laughing or talking. It was my pleasure to attend a Bible-class held by the clergyman of the village, about a mile off; and much of my time on Saturday was taken up with studying the lesson for the next day. I knew a good deal of the history and geography of the Bible, and could repeat many a chapter and verse; but to its lessons of humility, unselfishness, and true love to my God and my neighbour, I fear I paid little heed.
"My governess rather objected to my attending this class, which was intended for those who were much older than myself; for she thought I was doing too much, and not taking time enough for rest and play. But, since she did not forbid it, I shut my ears to her advice and took my own way. I believe I honestly thought I was doing right, too; that I was making the most of the opportunities God had given me, trying to please my parents and to do my duty. And these things were all right in themselves; but the trouble was, I did not take up the duty which lay nearest to my hand. I neglected the simple, easy work which God had put in my way, because I thought it was a trifle. You see, my darlings, I would not stoop to pick up the tiny jewel which lay at my feet, but reached out for that which was more showy and glittering, but less precious in His sight."
"We had been at school about four months, when one Saturday I noticed that Bertie seemed more dull and languid than usual I did not wish to see this, but I could not shut my eyes to it. She would not go out to play with the other children, nor would she amuse herself in the house, but sat listlessly about, looking pale and miserable.
"'What ails you, Bertie?' I asked at last; 'are you sick?'
"'I want mother,' she answered, with a quivering lip and eyes filling up with tears.
"'Well, four months have gone by,' I said, speaking cheerfully, but carelessly.
"'Four months,' the child repeated sadly, 'and that leaves,'—she counted up on her fingers,—'that leaves eight more, Margy, before they come home. Oh, it is so long!'
"'If you love father and mother so much,' I said, 'I should think you would try to do what would please them.'
"'So I do,' said my little sister, with the great tears now rolling down her cheeks; 'mother told me to be good and mind you and my teachers, and I have. Mrs. Horton told me yesterday I was the best little girl in the school, and gave her no trouble, and that she would write and tell mother so.'
"'Oh yes!' I said; 'you are certainly a very good child; but you might improve more if you chose, Bertie.'
"'I don't want to improve,' said Bertie: 'people are not half so nice when they improve.'
"'You do not understand what you are talking about," said I, half-laughing, half-vexed; 'people must be nicer when they improve, because it means to become wiser and better.'
"'Oh!' said Bertie, with a disapproving look at my pile of books; 'I thought it meant to study a great deal.'
"'You foolish child!' I answered rather sharply; 'there are a great many ways in which people may improve themselves. God gives one kind of work to one, and another kind to another; and the way to please Him, and to improve ourselves, is to do what He gives us with all our might.'
"'And has not God given you any work to do but studying all the time?' asked Bertie.
"'Of course not,' I answered, 'or I should do it. When our parents placed us in this expensive school, they meant us to make the most of our time and the advantages they had given us; so that is our duty both to them and to God.'
"I thought myself very wise and important while making these grand speeches to my little sister, but they did not seem to satisfy her.
"'But don't we have a duty to each other, Margy?' she said.
"'Certainly,' I answered; 'but I would like to know what you would be at. I suppose it is I you mean, when you say people are not nice who study a good deal; and I do not see where I have not done my duty to you. Don't I take all the care of you?'
"'Yes,' said Bertie slowly; 'but, Margy, you never pet me, or tell me stories, or sing to me, as you used to, and I would like it now more than I did then.'
"'So would I like it,' I said, 'but that would be play, not work, and I have not time for such nonsense. You must not think I do not love you just as much; and don't talk any more, I have wasted too much time already.'
"Bertie obeyed and was silent, leaning her head against the window-frame with a sad, weary air, while I turned over the leaves of my Bible in search of a verse I wanted; but I could not fix my attention. Bertie's words had made me feel very uncomfortable, and brought back my mother's last charge to me: 'Margaret, dear, take care of my baby, and do not let her want for any comfort or tenderness that you can give her.'
"Had I given Bertie all the love and tenderness in my power? Had I done the work which my mother—aye, and my God, too—had put into my hands; the work that should have been done before I took up any other?
"These thoughts now troubled me so, that I could scarcely study; but I tried to put them from me, saying to myself that I would give Bertie a good petting and tell her a long story on the next afternoon, after my return from Bible-class.
"But the next morning I thought I had found a new piece of work which it was my duty to perform. My Sabbath-school teacher told the class of a poor family, living some distance beyond the village, who were in the greatest need, and asked if some among us could not spare a little to help them. I at once took it up, saying that I would go round among the girls in our school, and see what I could collect. This I did, as soon as I reached home; and, each of the teachers and scholars giving more or less, I soon had a nice sum in my hands. I asked, and obtained permission, to go with one of my schoolmates and take this to the suffering family, after the dismissal of the afternoon Bible class; and as I sat upon the piazza, counting over the money, I said that I intended to do so.
"Bertie sat at my feet, leaning her head against my knees. She had not been to church or Sunday-school that morning, for she seemed so languid that Mrs. Horton had proposed she should stay at home.
"'O Margy!' she said, looking up at me with pleading eyes; 'then you will be away all the afternoon. It is such a long walk over to Cuddy's Hollow! and if you go there after Bible-class, you will not be home till tea-time. I do want you so! Couldn't some one else take it, and wouldn't you stay with me just this one Sunday?'
"'Impossible, Bertie,' I said; 'I have not missed one Bible-class since we came to school, and hope not to during the year; and you surely would not have these poor people suffering another twenty-four hours, when here is the money ready for them?'
"'No,' said Bertie; 'but I thought some one else could go. I believe I don't feel very well, Margy; and I want you to talk about mother. O Margy, do stay!'
"'Miss Ruthven," said one of my schoolmates, a new scholar, who stood by, 'I intended to join the Bible-class this afternoon; and if you would like to stay with your little sister, I will gladly go with Miss Oliver to carry the money.'
"Now, my conscience not being quite at rest for refusing Bertie's request, I immediately imagined that this young lady meant to reprove or dictate to me; and I answered stiffly,—
"Thank you, Miss Hart, but I prefer to attend to it myself. When one has undertaken a plain duty, one should not give it up for one's own pleasure.'
"'Yes,' said Miss Hart quietly; 'but should we not be very sure that we see clearly what is our duty, and what our pleasure?'
"I took no notice of this, but turned to Bertie, with,—
"'You said a little while ago, Bertie, that you were so sorry for these poor people. If we really care for others, and want to help them, we must sometimes give up our own comfort and convenience.'
"'Youdon't care forme, or want to help me a bit,' said Bertie passionately; 'and I am going to write and ask mother if I can't come to her, even if I do have to sail off in a ship all alone by myself;' and then she broke out in tears and sobs.
"'You know that is not true, and you are wrong and selfish, Bertie,' I said. 'I must go now, but be a good girl and stop crying, and I will talk to you about mother, and tell you a nice story when I come home;' and, giving her a hasty kiss, I ran down the steps and joined the group who were about starting for the church.
"'Are you not going with us, Miss Hart?' said the teacher who was to accompany us.
"'I think not,' she answered.
"'You had better come,' I said, not wishing she should think me unamiable; 'you have no idea how interesting these classes are, and how much one may learn."
"'Another afternoon,' she said, with a pleasant smile; 'to-day I will remain at home.'
"We started on our way, but I was very uneasy. The words, 'You do not care for me, or want to help me,' mingling with 'Do not let my baby want for any care or tenderness you can give her,' kept ringing in my ears; and my mother's eyes—how like Bertie's were to them!—seemed looking into mine, as she pleaded for her little pet lamb. I came on slowly after the others, trying to make up my mind that it wasnotmy duty to go back and stay with Bertie. Once I turned and looked behind, to see Mary Hart in the seat I had left, Bertie upon her lap, the child's arms about her neck, while she tenderly smoothed her lovely hair. A stranger was giving to my sister the petting and soothing for which she had longed, and which I had denied to her.
"Then came the voice of the teacher,—
"'Margaret Ruthven, why do you not come? If you want to stay with your sister, go back: if not, do not keep us waiting.'
"I followed the rest, but my thoughts were all in confusion that afternoon. I was angry with Bertie, with Mary Hart, with the teacher, with every one but myself, who alone was to blame. I could not fix my attention on the lesson, or put the questions and give the answers with which I was generally so ready; and I was glad when we were dismissed. Still, this did not prevent me from joining Miss Oliver and our Sunday-school teacher when they went to Cuddy's Hollow. It was a long walk; and so much time was taken up in making arrangements for the comfort of the poor family, that it was late before we started for home,—so late that, on our way through the village, Miss Henry stopped at her own house for her father, and both saw us safely home.
"We had been gone five or six hours, and as I entered the hall-door, some of the younger children met me.
"'O Miss Ruthven, Bertie is so sick! She went to sleep in Miss Hart's lap this afternoon, and when she woke up, she did not know any one; and the doctor is here, and she is so sick.'
"In an instant I had flown up the stairs, and was on my knees beside Bertie's bed. There she lay, her head rolling from side to side, her little hot hands tossing restlessly to and fro. She did not know me; and she moaned, and called for mother, saying that 'she was all alone, all alone.'
"Ah! my neglected work rose up plainly before me then,—the simple, easy work of love which God had put ready to my hands, but from which I had coldly turned away in search of something which I thought nobler and better. Would my parents care though I gained every prize in the school, if they came home to find their darling gone, and learned that her last days had been made unhappy by want of love and care? Bessie, do not look so distressed, love. Bertie did not die, though for three weeks all thought that it must end so. Probably all the care and tenderness in the world would not have kept off that terrible illness, but my remorse and misery were as great as though it had all been my doing. I would not leave her day or night, and it was only by the command of my governess that I took any rest. At last a change came, and Bertie was out of danger; but she was fretful and nervous, and could not bear me out of her sight; while I felt that I could not do enough to make up for the past, and devoted my whole time to her.
"'Margy,' she said one day, as I sat beside her, telling stories for her pleasure, 'I am glad you don't improve any more. You are just like my old Margy.'
"So the long summer days passed away, and the exhibition, where I had so hoped to excel all my schoolmates, was drawing near; and I stood, for absence, at the very foot of all my classes. Still I hoped to make up for lost time. Whenever Bertie slept, I took my books, and did my best to keep up with my class. A night-lamp was burned in our room; and, after the rest of the house was safely in bed, I used to rise and study by its faint light, then take a few hours of sleep, and be up with the first streak of day, spending many an hour over my lessons when I should have been at rest. In this way I hoped to recover what I had lost, and be able to take my old place by the time Bertie was well. But again I found that God had other work for me than that which I had laid out for myself.
"For some days I had felt a great deal of pain in my head, and a burning and throbbing in my eyes, which might have told me that I was doing myself harm; but I would not yet heed the warning, or speak of it to any one, lest I should be forbidden to pore over my books. But now it could no longer be hidden. I woke one morning in such agony, and with such a dimness over my sight, that, though Bertie was still weak, I was obliged to call her, and send for help. My governess came, and then the doctor; and, though I could not see his face, the grave tones of the latter and the directions he gave told me that it was a very serious matter.
"And so, indeed, it proved. Day after day and week after week I lay in a darkened room, suffering terribly, and in danger of losing my sight for ever. The exhibition was over, the long vacation gone by, before I was about again, and the poor eyes, which had been so sorely tried, were able to bear the light. And there was worse, or what I thought was worse, still to come. My own sense, as well as the doctor's orders, told me plainly that all use of my eyes must be forbidden for some time. 'How long?' I asked the doctor.
"'For months, perhaps years,' he answered bluntly.
"You may think what a blow this was to me; but, after my first sorrow had passed away, I amused myself by forming new plans. If I could not distinguish myself in one way, I would in another. I would do so much for other people, that every one would love and honour me. I had plenty of money, for my father gave me a large allowance; and I would look after the wants, not only of the poor family of whom I have before spoken, but of many more down in the village. They were a miserable, neglected set there; but I would alter all that. I would spend my savings for them, and show them how to be neat and comfortable; with my governess's leave, I would gather the children together and teach them all I could without the use of my eyes; and I did not doubt that, in a short time, I should work a change that would surprise and delight all who saw it, and be greatly to my own credit and glory.
"Ah, there was the trouble! I thought I would serve my Master, and let my good works be 'seen of men;' but I fear it was to glorify myself, not Him, and so He did not will that my little light should fall upon the path which I had chosen for myself.
"All these plans and purposes came to nothing, as my former ones had done. I was not only forbidden to read, write, or study, but also to fatigue or exert myself in any way; and, indeed, I soon found that this was necessary. Walking to the village was not to be thought of. One quarter of the distance brought on the old, terrible pain, and I was forced into quiet by the dread of blindness.
"So I was to be laid aside as useless, I thought; and I fretted myself, and others, till those about me had good reason to think that the work I had now chosen was to make myself as disagreeable as possible. It was in vain that my governess told me how wrong and sinful I was; I could listen to nothing but the murmurings of my own discontent and disappointment, and refused to look at the blessings which God had left me, or to learn the lesson He was trying to teach me.
"Thus the rest of the year passed away, and my parents came home, to find me, not the proud, triumphant scholar I had hoped to be, nor yet the beloved and useful benefactor who had gained praise and gratitude from all who knew her; but a restless, moping, fretful invalid—a burden to herself and all around her."
"But, grandmamma," said Maggie, as Mrs. Stanton paused for a moment, "you did not tell us what work it was God had left for you."
"To learn a lesson of patience, humility, and submission to His will, Maggie; lessons which I was long in taking to heart, and which I had sadly needed. It was long years before my health and the use of my eyes came back to me; not till I had learned to be contented with the simple every-day duties which God had meant should be my lot in life. What I wished was to do great things, and serve my God and my fellow-creatures in a way that should be 'seen and known of men;' but our Father knew that this would not be good for me—that the pride and vainglory, which were my chief faults, would only be strengthened and made worse if He allowed me to go on in the paths I had chosen. I can see this now for myself, and bless Him that He put out His hand and led me by the quiet ways where I have learned to find all my duties and my happiness. But, look! There is dear mamma awake, and the duty I see plainly before us now is to go and give her some beef-tea and jelly, which I think she needs."
"But, grandmamma," said Maggie, when her mother had been bolstered up, and was enjoying her nice soup, "I do not think waiting on mamma is a bit of a duty; I think it is a great, great pleasure."
"So do I, Maggie; but a pleasure may be a duty, may it not?"
Maggie looked doubtful.
"I don't quite see how, grandmamma. I thought a duty was something one ought to do, but did not quite want to do,—like forgiving people when they are unkind to us, or putting away my playthings when I would rather leave them; or—or—trying to have a cheerful mind about going to school, 'cause it's a help to mamma;" and Maggie smiled a wistful, half-tearful little smile, which went straight to the hearts of her mother and grandmother.
"But even a disagreeable duty may bring its own pleasure and satisfaction with it, darling, if we only go about it in the right way," said Mrs. Stanton; "and there is many a pleasant thing that is also a duty. You say you love to wait on your mother; but suppose you did not like it, would it be right for you to refuse to do what you could for her?"
"No indeed," answered Maggie promptly.
"Mamma seems to like that jelly pretty well," said grandmamma; "but is there no other reason why she should take it?"
"Yes," said Maggie; "because the doctor said she must eat everything that would make her strong and well."
"So, then, you see a pleasant thing may be as much a duty as a disagreeable one. Right is right, wrong is wrong, and duty is duty; and we cannot alter that, however it may affect ourselves. Only we must try, as I meant my story to show you, to dofirstthe duty that is plainest, and which lies nearest to our hand, for that is God's work, and the thing He means us to do."
Bessie had been listening very thoughtfully to all that passed, and now she said gravely,—
"Grandmamma, I s'pose you mean me to take a lesson of your story, and to understand that if it is Maggie's duty to go to school and study, it is mine to stay at home and not study much, 'cause mamma wishes it. So one way isherduty, and another way ismyduty."
"I did not mean the story more for one than for the other," said Mrs. Stanton, smiling; "but I am glad you want to learn something from it, dear; and I think you are right in saying that your duty lies in one way, and Maggie's in another. See who is knocking at the door, Maggie."
It was Patrick to say Miss Ashton was below; and he was told to ask her to walk up, while the children were sent from the room, that mamma might be at liberty to talk to her.
Miss Ashton did not stay very long; but it seemed to Maggie and Bessie an age, as they sat upon a hall chair, and waited for her to come from mamma's room; so that, as Maggie said, "They might see if her look had any good news for them."
Not only her looks, but her pleasant voice also, brought good news to them; for, as she met the two wistful faces which gazed up into hers, she stopped and said, smiling, "So I am to have two dear little scholars from here, instead of one, if your papa will consent."
Instantly every corner of Maggie's face brightened into smiles and dimples; while Bessie, slipping off the chair, seized upon Miss Ashton's hand.
"Oh, could you, Miss Ashton? could you, really?" she exclaimed.
"Could I what? Agree to take a loving little girl with her sister, and teach her just as much as her mother thinks it best for her to learn? Well, I think I shall try and see how it will work."
At this Maggie too came down from the chair, and took Miss Ashton's other hand.
"I am so very much obliged to you, ma'am," she said, too much delighted to remember that the lady was almost a stranger to her.
"Yes," said Bessie, "you can't know how very much we thank you, 'cause you don't know how much accustomed Maggie and I are to each other."
"And I hope you will soon both become accustomed to me, and learn to love me," said Miss Ashton; and then she kissed them, and, telling them she hoped to see them at school on the next Monday, she went away; and the children ran back to their mother's room to make very sure that the good news was true.
"Yes," mamma said, "it had all been arranged." Miss Ashton was very kind, and said she would give Bessie lessons by herself, if she were not able to keep up with the rest of the class, and she might amuse herself quietly during the rest of the time; and nothing now remained but to hear what papa thought of this new plan. Only one promise mamma said she would require; and that was, that when the weather was such that she did not think it best for Bessie to go out, Maggie should go alone cheerfully. Maggie readily agreed, and when papa came home and said, since mamma and Miss Ashton thought it would do, he should make no objection, the two little sisters were so happy in the arrangement which kept them together, that even Maggie had no room for dread of the new school and new faces.
So, on the next Monday morning, there were two serious, but not sad, little damsels who stood one on each side of mamma, ready hatted and cloaked, waiting till papa should give the word to start for school. Serious, for this was a grave and important matter to them—quite a new step in life, and to Maggie a very trying one. Still, Bessie was with her, so she could bear it.
Mr. Bradford gave the word, and their mother was hugged and kissed, as though the parting were to be for a month instead of three hours, and they went away. Mamma had bidden them good-bye very cheerily, and it was as well they did not see the tear or two that rolled down her pale cheek, or how sorrowfully she looked after them, as she thought how she should miss their sweet company during those morning hours when they had been accustomed to be with her. But she knew it was best; and so, after the way of dear mammas, would not let them see her own regret, lest it should add to their trouble.
Mrs. and Miss Ashton lived but a short distance from Mrs. Bradford, and in a curious, old-fashioned house that was very different from most city houses. It was only two storeys high, but very wide and deep, and away at the back stretched a garden as old-fashioned as the house, with stiff box hedges, gravel walks bordered with white pebbles, a fountain in the centre, and at the farther end two old summer-houses covered with grape-vines. The two sides which bordered on the street were guarded by a high picket-fence, the third by a low stone wall beyond which were half a dozen vacant lots; while on the opposite corner, at right angles with Miss Ashton's house, lived Mr. Peters, who kept the school which Harry and Fred attended, and his boys were accustomed to use these lots as their ball-ground.
Maggie and Bessie thought it a very remarkable and pleasant circumstance that these two houses, standing thus by themselves on one square, should be occupied by the two schools, and it gave them a more homelike feeling to know that their brothers were so near.
Mr. Bradford asked for Miss Ashton, and when the young lady came down, he said a few words to her, and then, kissing his two little daughters, left them in her care. Miss Ashton talked very pleasantly and kindly to them as she led them up-stairs, followed by Jane, who had also come to take off the children's hats and cloaks; but they both felt very homesick as papa walked away, and had no heart to answer her. It seemed worse still when their walking-things were taken off, and Jane went away, looking very unwilling to leave them. Maggie's eyes were full of tears, and Bessie only kept hers back by the help of a feeling that she was there to be a comfort to her sister, and so must not give way.
But things appeared brighter when Miss Ashton took them into the large, pleasant front room where the rest of the class were assembled. Here were seven little girls, and among them were Lily Norris, Gracie Howard, and Nellie and Carrie Ransom,—all looking very happy, and very much pleased to see Maggie and Bessie, and not at all as though school were a thing to be dreaded.
Place was soon found for the two sisters, and they were seated together, with Lily on Maggie's other side, and Gracie by Bessie. Next came the Ransoms. All these six were well acquainted and were glad to meet; but the three on the other side of the room were strangers to them and to one another, and looked shy and uncomfortable; and Bessie, as she talked with her young friends, felt sorry for them, and thought she would speak to them, if she only knew their names and what to say.
Presently Miss Ashton, who had left the room, came back with another child, and this one made the number of the class ten. The last comer was a pale, sad-eyed little girl, dressed in deep mourning; and she, too, was a stranger to all the others.
"Now," said Miss Ashton, "I shall leave you for ten minutes to become acquainted. Then my mother will come, and we will open school."
"But, Miss Ashton," said Bessie, as the lady turned to go.
"Well, dear?"
Bessie hesitated for a moment, for she thought perhaps Miss Ashton would think she was taking a liberty; but when she saw with what a kind smile she looked at her, she made up her mind to speak. She did so, not boldly, but with an outspoken, yet modest little way, that was all her own.
"You see we don't know each other's names," she said; "and I thought if you was to in-tro-duce us, maybe we could be acquainted sooner."
"To be sure," said Miss Ashton, smiling. "Thank you for reminding me, Bessie. I did not think the first lesson taught here this morning would be one of politeness, to be learned by myself."
"O Miss Ashton," said Bessie, "I would not be so saucy as to say you were not polite! I only thought perhaps you forgot."
"And so I did, dear; but true politeness should teach us to remember all those little things which may make others comfortable, or put them at their ease; and I am afraid we grown people often forget that children need such attentions as well as those who are older."
Then she introduced them all to one another, and went away.
The four whose names were new, were Belle Powers, Dora Johnson, Laura Middleton, and Fanny Leroy. Belle was the little girl in black, who looked so sad.
"Have any of you looked what is in your desks?" asked Nellie Ransom, by way of beginning a conversation. "Carrie and I were the first here, and Miss Ashton showed us. There's a slate, and a spelling-book, and a drawing-book, and a geography, and lots of things. Lift up the covers and look. She'll let you."
No sooner said than done. Ten low desks were ranged around the room, each with a chair of suitable size before it; and one had been given to each child. Every lid, but one, was raised at Nellie's words, and little heads were popped within to discover what lay hidden there. This gave food enough for talk; even Maggie had something to say; only one tongue was silent, and that was Belle's.
"I guess that is 'Sulky Sue,'" whispered Gracie Howard to Maggie and Bessie, looking over at the mournful, quiet child. "She'd better turn her face to the wall, till she comes to."
"Oh, don't!" answered Maggie. "She'll hear you;" and Bessie said, "I think she feels sorry about something, and her dress is so black. Maybe somebody of hers is dead."
"Yes," said Maggie; "and I'm real sorry for her. I would go and speak to her, if—if—I only knew what to say."
"I'll go," said Bessie, and, rising, she walked over to Belle. She did not know what to say either; but she did what was better: she put her arm around the child's neck, and kissed her lips in a way which told Belle of the sympathy that was in her heart.
Then Belle's tears overflowed, and, putting both her own arms about Bessie's waist, she laid her head against her, and cried silently.
"What is the matter?" whispered Bessie.
"I want my mamma," sobbed the child.
"But you know you'll see her pretty soon," said Bessie. "We are only going to stay in school a little while, and then we'll go home and see our mammas."
"I'll never see my mamma again," said Belle; "never, never, till I'm dead myself; and I wish God would let me be dead now, only then papa would be all alone, and he says I am all his comfort. But, oh dear! mamma is never there for me to go home to."
At this, Bessie's tears also ran over; and as the other children, drawn by Belle's distress, gathered about them, she pointed to the black dress, and said with trembling lips, "Her mamma."
Then Maggie, forgetting to feel strange, went down on her knees beside Belle, and began to caress her; and Gracie, full of remorse for having called her "Sulky Sue," seized on one of her hands and began kissing it; while the others stood around in silent pity.
Their sympathy did Belle good. She did not mourn the less for her lost mother, but she did not now feel so lonesome and cast astray as she had done a moment since; and, lifting her face with a faint smile struggling through her tears, she held up her lips to Bessie for another kiss, saying, "I love you, you're good; they're all good."
As she spoke, the folding-doors at the end of the room were thrown open, and Miss Ashton appeared, and hurried towards them, rather dismayed at finding her young flock in trouble so soon. It was speedily explained; and Maggie and Bessie felt sure that they should love their new teacher, as they saw how gentle and tender she was with the motherless little one. She did not say much, for Mrs. Ashton was waiting to open school; but, after sending the others to their seats, she led Belle to her own chair, which stood before the table in the centre of the room, and lifted her upon her lap, laying her head upon her bosom, and passing her hand over the child's hair and face with a soothing touch which soon quieted her sobs, and made her feel that Miss Ashton was her friend and comforter as well as her teacher.
The opening of the folding-doors had given to view a second room, where were gathered ten larger girls, from fourteen to seventeen years old—very tall young ladies they seemed to Maggie and Bessie; and Mrs. Ashton, a grave, elderly lady, in a widow's dress, sat just within the doors, where she could be seen and heard from both rooms. She opened school with a short prayer, and then said a few words to all the children, large and small, telling them she hoped they would be obedient, happy, industrious, and kind to one another.
"Now I would like to hear the names of all these little girls," she said.
The answers came very well until it was Maggie's turn to give hers, but the poor child was in an agony of bashfulness, and could by no means speak. While Mrs. Ashton was talking, she had happened to look up, and caught a pair of mischievous, dancing black eyes fixed upon her from the other room. After that, she could not help glancing up at them every moment or two; and each time she did so her colour deepened and deepened and her head sank lower and lower; for the owner of the black eyes kept smiling and nodding, making odd faces, and shaking her finger, till Maggie did not know whether to laugh or cry; and by the time the question came to her, her small stock of courage and her voice were both gone.
"Cannot you tell me your name, my dear?" asked Mrs. Ashton.
"Her name is Maggie Stanton Bradford," said Bessie, taking her sister by the hand.
"You should let your sister speak for herself, my dear," said the lady.
"No, ma'am," said Bessie, respectfully but steadily, "I came to school to be of use and comfort to Maggie, and when she don't want to speak 'cause she feels shy, why, she likes me to do it for her, so I have to. And, ma'am, you said you wanted us to be industrious; but I'm 'fraid I can't. I have to be rather lazy."
"My dear child," said Mrs. Ashton, "you surely do not come to school to be lazy."
"Oh yes, ma'am!" said Bessie gravely. "Mamma 'spressly said that I was not to study much, and that was condition that I came to school."
Bessie was growing rather frightened herself at having to speak before so many; but she thought she ought to let Mrs. Ashton know how and why she had come to school, and what was to be expected of her; and that she might as well have her say out at once.
The other children were all listening to her in great astonishment, and some of the great girls in the back room were beginning to laugh. Bessie wondered why they did so, and thought they were not very polite. Mrs. Ashton heard her with a half-smile breaking over her pale face, and Miss Ashton was smiling outright.
"Oh," said Mrs. Ashton, "I understand. You are Bessie Bradford. Mary, I think you should make this matter a little plainer."
Miss Ashton said she would do so; and then the doors were closed again, and the business of the day began.
"Now, little Belle," said Miss Ashton, "will you go to your seat?"
Belle clung to her teacher, and whispered something in her ear.
"Belle wishes very much to sit by Bessie Bradford," said Miss Ashton. "How shall we fix it? Will Bessie change her seat, or will Maggie or Gracie give up hers? It is only for to-day; to-morrow Belle will feel more at home, and that you are all her friends."
Maggie had not yet recovered from the effect of the black eyes, although they were now shut from view; and she tightened her hold of Bessie's hand, feeling that she could scarcely bear to be separated from her just now.
Gracie did not want to give up her seat either, for she liked to sit by Bessie; but while she hesitated, and Miss Ashton waited, she remembered when they were at Quam Beach summer before last, and went to Sunday-school in the barn, Maggie had gone to sit by Mamie Stone, a girl whom no other child would have near her, and with whom Maggie had just had a quarrel. And she thought if she would do so much for a quarrelsome child, who had been unkind to her and her sister, might not she give up her seat to this little, sad, motherless one, who already looked on the dear Bessie as her friend? She had called her "Sulky Sue," too!
Maggie would have been very much astonished if she had been told that the small act of self-denial and forgiveness which she had long since forgotten was bearing fruit now; but so it was, and, jumping up, Gracie said, "Belle may have my seat by Bessie to-day and to-morrow too, Miss Ashton."
Gracie felt quite repaid when she saw Belle's grateful smile, and the comfort she seemed to take in being close by Bessie.
Miss Ashton said they would have no regular lessons for that day, as she must first find out how much each one knew, and then arrange their studies; and she told Bessie she thought she had misunderstood her mamma's meaning. She did not wish her to be a lazy girl; she wanted her to be industrious, and try to do well whatever was given her to do; but she had feared Bessie would not be satisfied if she were not allowed to go on as fast as Maggie and some of the others; andthatshe did not think would be wise. When she went home, she must ask her mamma if it were not so.