Flowers
Sheep
XI.
A SAD ACCIDENT.
T
"That'scapital!" exclaimed Fred. "Give us another, Midge, will you?"
Fred had conducted himself with such becoming propriety, and his applause had been so hearty, that Maggie felt not only quite reconciled to his presence, but also ready to indulge him; and she answered,—
"Yes, I have one more, and it is to be instructive as well as amusing, Fred, because it is an historical charade."
"Go ahead!" said Fred, scrambling back into his seat, which he had left to help carry Sir Percy into retirement.
The preparations for the first syllable of the historical charade were very imposing. Two chairs were placed face to face; upon these was mounted the table, turned upside down, with its legs in the air; to one of the legs was tied a large feather dust-brush,—the whole arrangement supposed to represent an oak-tree, as Maggie explained.
Maggie, Nellie, Lily, and Belle were the performers on this occasion; and in due time they all entered, escorting Sir Percy, now in the character of King Charles, in full kingly costume, the red table-cloth doing duty for his robes, and a crown, a "real crown" of tinsel paper adorning his majesty's brows. He was held with some difficulty upon his horse,—another chair turned down for the purpose,—and again Tom's warning voice came from the store-room.
"You'd better look out with that old hobby. You'll hurt yourselves some time, lugging him about that fashion."
But the suggestion was treated with disdain.
An old hobby indeed! King Charles an "old hobby"!
The horse—that is, the chair horse—paused beneath the tree, and then, relieved of his burden, galloped off, led by Belle; while the other three prepared to hoist his cumbersome majesty into the tree, he not being agile enough to perform that office for himself.
Maggie had proposed that two of the children should be his enemies in pursuit; but no one was willing to take that character. Staunch little royalists they were, every one, and not to be reckoned among the persecutors of the unfortunate king. So this little diversion from the true historical facts had been permitted to suit the occasion, all the more readily as it was feared that it would take the united strength of the whole four to raise him to the necessary height. Still Maggie had not been quite satisfied with such a very great departure from reality; and, hearing the difficulty as they worked at the carpenter's bench, Tom and Harry had good-naturedly offered to take upon themselves the obnoxious part of the king'senemies, and as soon as he was safely hidden in the tree to rush forth in search of him, and feign total unconsciousness as they passed beneath his place of shelter.
This being settled, and Belle, having disposed of her horse, and returned to give a hand to the lifting process, the royal fugitive was, by the united exertions of his four devoted adherents, raised to his hiding-place. But he proved too heavy for the slight construction; and feather duster, chair, and table toppled over together, carrying King Charles with them.
Maggie and Lily held fast, one on either side, but the other two had left their hold. Fred, seeing the danger, sprang like a shot from his seat, and his hand but just touched the old hobby-horse as it rolled over, not soon enough to prevent its fall, but in time to turn the heavy thing a little aside. It fell, carrying Lily back with it; and the two came together to the floor, jarring the whole house. Tom and Harry rushed out, not, alas! in theplay in which they had offered to join, but in sad and alarmed earnest; and Nora flew from her work.
Tom had Lily in his arms in an instant, but the poor little girl was a sorry sight. Sir Percy's head had struck against hers as they fell together, and blood was already streaming from an ugly wound just above her temple. But for Fred's timely touch, which turned the weight of the hobby-horse a little to one side, the child's head must have been crushed, and she killed.
Oh, was not Maggie thankful that she had allowed her good-nature to triumph over her fear of being laughed at, and had consented to let Fred join in their fun!
Ah! the fun and frolic were changed now,—changed to distress and alarm. Lily lay half stunned, gasping and death-like, while the cries and shrieks of the other children rang through the house, and speedily brought her mother to the spot.
It was indeed a sad ending to the merry afternoon, and for a few moments the children could scarcely believe that Lily was not killed, or at least dying, so white and quiet did she lie. Never did piteous cry carry more relief to a mother's heart than that which at last broke from the pale, trembling lips; for Mrs. Norris too had feared that her darling was dangerously, if not fatally injured. It must have been so indeed but for the care of the kind Father who had watched over her, and sent Fred's timely help to turn aside a portion of the threatening danger.
"Go for the doctor," said Mrs. Norris.
But Fred, with a thoughtfulness which he sometimes showed, had already asked Tom if he should not do this, and had started off with his direction.
The grass never grew beneath Fred's nimble feet at any time; and now, when he believed there was need for speed, he almost flew over the ground, and, happily finding the doctor at home, brought him back with him at once.
Lily had been carried downstairs and laid upon her little bed, where her mother was doing for her all that she could, though that was not much, until the doctor came.
A group of frightened and distressed little faces met the good old physician's eye as he passed through the hall. He spoke a few cheering words as he went by, but as he did not yet know how much Lily was hurt, he did not put much heart into his young hearers. Still it was a comfort to know that he had come, and it always did one good to see Dr. Banks' kind, helpful face.
Before the doctor arrived, Lily had opened her eyes, and smiled at her mother with a bewildered look; but when she saw the blood which was streaming from the wound in her head, she was frightened, and began to cry again.
But the dear old doctor soon quieted her fears, and those of her anxious mother; and the good news presently spread through the house that he did not think her dangerously hurt. There was a deep, ugly cut on her headjust above the temple, it was true, and her eye was already swelling and blackening; but he had no fears that her injuries were serious, and with some care and quiet she would soon be well again.
But Lily had had a very merciful escape, and Maggie could not be sufficiently glad and thankful that she had been kind and obliging, and allowed Fred "to come to the charades," when she heard every one saying that but for the thrust from his hand which had turned aside the weight of the old hobby-horse, the heavy thing must have crushed the dear little head of her young playmate.
"It was quite a mountain of mercy out of a mole-hill of kindness," quaintly said dear Maggie, as she wiped from her eyes the tears of joy and gratitude.
Hearing that Lily must be kept quiet, the thoughtful Harry carried away his sisters, and all the other little visitors, as soon as they were assured that there was no cause for alarm, and saw them all safely to their separatehomes.
Lily lay patient and gentle under the doctor's handling, as he felt the poor little bruised head, and tenderly cut away the hair from the wound, and bound it up; but every now and then she put up her hand, with a piteous, anxious expression, to the eye which was swelling and closing so fast.
"Does it pain you so, darling?" her mother would ask.
"Not so very much, mamma," she would answer, "but"—and here her words always came to an end.
But when the doctor was through, and the aching head laid carefully on a soft pillow, the trouble that was weighing on her mind broke forth.
"Doctor," she asked wistfully, "is my eye going out?"
"Going out? No, indeed," answered the doctor, cheerily. "I rather think it is going in, my Lily-bud. It is shutting up pretty tight now, it is true; but we'll take the swellingdown in a day or two, and it will soon be as useful and bright as ever."
"By Monday, Doctor?" questioned Lily, anxiously.
"Ho, no, indeed, my little woman! You will not have much use of this peeper for a week or ten days to come. Even if you could see out of it, you must keep quite quiet, lie here on the bed or on the sofa, and be petted and nursed for a few days, or this little head may give you some trouble."
Lily looked as if something was giving her a good deal of trouble now; for as the doctor spoke, her face grew longer and longer, and now she burst into tears again, as she sobbed out,—
"My petticoat! O mamma, my orphan petticoat!"
"Hallo!" said the doctor, "what is that, I should like to know? I have heard of a good many kinds of petticoats, but I never heard of an orphan petticoat before. But this will not do, my child. Youmustlie down and keepquiet."
"Do not trouble yourself about the petticoat now, darling," said her mother, gently laying her back upon the pillow, from which she had started up in her distress, "I will arrange that."
"But, mamma," said Lily, piteously, "you know you said—you said that you could not let Nora finish it for me, and—and—oh, dear!—you couldn't break your word, you know, and my orphan child won't have any petticoat, and it was all my old Pro, and so what can I do? Oh, if I only didn't have Pro! I b'lieve he's my worst enemy."
"What is all this about petticoats and pro's, Mrs. Norris?" said the doctor. "Put her mind at rest if you can, or we shall be having headache and fever."
"Lily, darling," said her mother, "you must set your mind at rest about the petticoat. You certainly cannot finish it now; but I shall not let the little orphan suffer. By and by I will see what is best to do, but now you must talkand think no more about it. Mamma will arrange it all for you, and you will make yourself worse if you fret."
"Dear mamma," said Lily, "I should think you would want to arrange not to have such a bothering little thing as me for your own little girl; only I don't s'pose you do. I b'lieve mammas generally don't."
"Hush, hush, my darling," said her mother, whose own heart was swelling with gratitude that a Higher Hand had "arranged" that her dear "little bothering thing," as Lily called herself, was not to be taken from her, but that she was still spared to be the joy of all who loved her, the "sunbeam" of the home that would have seemed so dark without her.
Lily obeyed the soothing touch of her mother's hand, and, confident that she would find some way to help her out of her trouble, said no more of the unfinished task. But it was upon her mind for all that, as was proved when the evening wore away, and the fever and light-headedness the doctor had fearedcame on. A very slight illness was enough to make Lily light-headed, and the blow she had received was by no means a slight one. So it was not strange that it should have that effect. And she talked pretty wildly about petticoats and puppies, work-boxes and rocking-horses, and had many bitter words for her enemy Pro; and all her mother could say would not soothe her.
But at last she grew more quiet, and the poor little bruised head ceased to wander, and she fell asleep; and when she awoke in the morning, her mind was as bright and clear as ever.
But her face was sadly disfigured, and one eye was quite closed up, so that it was plainly to be seen that Lily would not have much use of it for some days to come. All this would pass away in time, however; swelling and discoloration would disappear by and by; and, happily, the cut upon her head came where the scar would be hidden by her hair.
Somewhat to Mrs. Norris' surprise, Lily said no word of the petticoat all the next day; but she was very glad that it was so, and took pains to avoid any thing that might turn her thoughts that way. Lily did think of it, however, although she said nothing; and she could not but wonder now and then how her mother would contrive to help her without breaking her word. But she felt languid and ill, and it was a trouble to talk, so she let it go for the present, believing as usual that it would come right somehow.
But on Monday morning, when Nora was dressing her, the nurse said,—
"Miss Lily, darling, I am just going to ask your mamma to let me finish your petticoat for you. I think she'll excuse you this once, since you cannot do it for yourself."
"No," said Lily earnestly, "you must not ask mamma, Nora, 'cause it would only give her the uncomfortableness of saying no. She told me she would not let the little orphan suffer for my fault, and she will find a way to make it right, though I don't know what it is,and I am too ashamed to ask her. But you know she said very surely and pos-i-tive-ly, Nora, that she would not let you finish it, if it was not done through my putting off; and that was the reason it was not done on Saturday morning, as it ought to have been. I know I cannot do it now myself, but I could have done it before; and mamma can not break her word."
Lily concluded with a sigh, for she really did not know what plan her mother could have for helping her, and she was very anxious, though, as she said, too much ashamed to ask any more.
But it so happened that Mrs. Norris overheard this conversation, and she was thankful to find how strong in her Lily was that sense of truth which would not allow her to believe for one moment that mamma could go back from her word under any circumstances. It was rather remarkable that with all her heedlessness and volatile spirits, Lily was so strictly truthful and upright, for they never betrayedher into an equivocation, as carelessness and want of thought are too apt to do.
The morning was not far gone before Lily's mind was set at rest on the subject of her petticoat, for her mamma came to sit beside her, and brought her work with her.
And what was her work?
Lily noticed it in a moment; a petticoat for a child,—not of such muslin as her own skirts, but coarser and stronger, just such as her "orphan petticoat" was made of.
"Mamma?" she said, with her eyes fixed upon the strips of muslin in her mother's hand.
"Yes, dear," said her mother, "you know I said the little orphan must not suffer through you, and I told you Nora could not finish your petticoat, and send it as your work, if you did not do it yourself; so I shall make this one, and send it to Miss Ashton in the place of the other."
"And tell Miss Ashton, mamma?"
"Well, yes, dear, I must. Do you not think so?"
"Yes, mamma, and I s'pose the girls must know. Even if she don't tell them, I think I ought to when I go back to school. They ought not to think I was industrious and good like the rest when I just put off and put off until this sad accident came, and then I really couldn't do it;" and here a great tear rolled down Lily's cheek.
"My darling," said her mother, dropping her work, and bending over to kiss the sorrowful little face, "mamma cannot bear to see you mortified and grieved, but she does want this to be a lesson to you, and to save you from future trouble and loss."
"Yes, mamma, I know," answered Lily, "and it serves me quite right; but it does make me feel very badly to know that all the other children can feel that the little orphans are having some good of their kindness, and they do not have one bit of mine."
Mrs. Norris hesitated before she spoke again. She felt as if she could not bear to have her poor child so hardly punished now when she was suffering, and had just escaped such agreat danger. She could not let Nora finish the petticoat, but why not finish it herself, she thought, as well as make another, and send it to Miss Ashton with a message from Lily that she had not done the whole of it herself?
Just then came a knock at the door, and, being bidden to enter, Robert brought a note for Miss Lily, saying the messenger waited for an answer.
"It is Maggie's writing, I think," said Mrs. Norris.
Lily raised herself, and held out her hand.
"You cannot read it for yourself, dear. Shall I do it?" asked her mother.
Lily assented, and, opening the note, Mrs. Norris read as follows:—
"Dear Lily,—We are so sorry for you, all of us, but we are so very happy you were not killed by Sir Percy Hotspur, who is very nice to play with, but not nice to fall underneath, and we are glad you are not such a victim as that. But, Lily, dear, we do not know, Bessieand I, if you have finished your petticoat for the orphan child. We did not ask you on Saturday because we thought if it was not done you wouldn't like to say so, but we thought perhaps the reason you did not speak about it was because a 'burnt child dreads the fire,' which means people don't like things that bring them into trouble, or to speak about them. So we thought it was quite probable that it was not done, and we know you cannot finish it now, for yesterday we met Dr. Banks when we were coming from church, and he said you could not go to school, or use your poor hurt eye for a good many days. So, dear, if you would let me finish it for you, I would be very glad, and Bessie will too, and you can send it to me by Patrick. And you need not think I will have to do it all in my play-time, for mamma says I can do it in my sewing-lesson to-day, which is half an hour, and if there is any more, I'd just as lieve do it afterwards, and the heart which would not do that is not worthy of a friend, but ought to be likea man we read about the other day who lived in a tub and was cross to everybody. And do you believe, people called him a wise man!!! Which shows they must have been very stupid people in those days to call such an old cross-patch wise, and I'm glad I was never acquainted with him for I would not consider him fit to know."So ask your mamma to send me the petticoat if it is not done, that my true friendship may have the pleasure of finishing it. From your esteemed friend,"Maggie Stanton Bradford."P.S. If a pretty bad button-hole would be any relief to your feelings instead of strings, I would just as lieve make one, but it don't look very nice."
"Dear Lily,—We are so sorry for you, all of us, but we are so very happy you were not killed by Sir Percy Hotspur, who is very nice to play with, but not nice to fall underneath, and we are glad you are not such a victim as that. But, Lily, dear, we do not know, Bessieand I, if you have finished your petticoat for the orphan child. We did not ask you on Saturday because we thought if it was not done you wouldn't like to say so, but we thought perhaps the reason you did not speak about it was because a 'burnt child dreads the fire,' which means people don't like things that bring them into trouble, or to speak about them. So we thought it was quite probable that it was not done, and we know you cannot finish it now, for yesterday we met Dr. Banks when we were coming from church, and he said you could not go to school, or use your poor hurt eye for a good many days. So, dear, if you would let me finish it for you, I would be very glad, and Bessie will too, and you can send it to me by Patrick. And you need not think I will have to do it all in my play-time, for mamma says I can do it in my sewing-lesson to-day, which is half an hour, and if there is any more, I'd just as lieve do it afterwards, and the heart which would not do that is not worthy of a friend, but ought to be likea man we read about the other day who lived in a tub and was cross to everybody. And do you believe, people called him a wise man!!! Which shows they must have been very stupid people in those days to call such an old cross-patch wise, and I'm glad I was never acquainted with him for I would not consider him fit to know.
"So ask your mamma to send me the petticoat if it is not done, that my true friendship may have the pleasure of finishing it. From your esteemed friend,
"Maggie Stanton Bradford.
"P.S. If a pretty bad button-hole would be any relief to your feelings instead of strings, I would just as lieve make one, but it don't look very nice."
To have seen Lily's eyes—or rather her eye, for you know there was only one to be seen—as her mother finished reading this letter to her! to have seen the pleading of her poor little face!
"Well, dear," said her mother, smiling back in answer to the unspoken question that was written in every line of her Lily's countenance. "Well, dear, shall we accept Maggie's offer?"
"Oh, mamma! if you think I might," cried Lily.
"Yes," said her mother, "since dear Maggie is so good as to offer, and give up her time to you, perhaps I will let you accept. But, my darling, I do not want you to forget that here again the consequences of your habit of procrastinating are falling on another. Maggie is doing the work which should have been done by you, and although, I am sure she does it willingly, and with all her heart, dear little friend that she is, still you must own that it is hard she should have her own share, and part of yours too."
"Yes, mamma," answered Lily, penitently, "and I know I don't deserve to have any of the work I have done go to the orphan that has no father or mother, and I am very thankful to darling Maggie. And, mamma, I think I ought to ask you to write a note to MissAshton, and let her tell the other children that I did not do the whole of the petticoat, or it would not be quite fair. 'Specially, mamma, 'cause some of them said I wouldn't have my petticoat done, and Iscornedwhat they said, and was very sure of myself. So it would be more true, I think, to tell them how it was."
"Yes, darling," said her mother, glad that her little girl was so truthful, and unwilling to take any credit that was not rightly her own; and then she kissed her, and, bringing the unfortunate petticoat, rolled it up, and sent it away to the dear little sunbeam who was so ready to shed light and comfort wherever she had the power to do so.
Flower
Birds in nest
XII.
LILY'S NEW RESOLVE.
T
Therewas a good deal of bustle and excitement, as you may imagine, on Tuesday morning, when Miss Ashton's little scholars came, each with her respective parcel.
Poor Lily of course was not there; it would be many a day yet before she was able to come to school, but all the others were in their places, and very anxious for the lessons to be over. Nor were Maggie and Bessie there during school-hours; but they were to come afterwards, and bring the little garments they had made.
"Let's see who finished her work first," said Gracie. "Dora, when did you finish yours?"
"Saturday morning," answered Dora.
"Pooh!" said Gracie, "how long you were. Nellie, when was yours done?"
"Last night," answered Nellie; "and I was very glad I had not taken a petticoat, for I could not have finished it."
Gracie only looked her contempt, but she did that so plainly that it might have placed her in the ranks of the anti-politers quite as readily as rude and scornful words could have done. Nellie felt it, colored, and looked hurt.
"Belle, when did you finish yours?"
"Iperfernot to tell you," answered Belle, with magnificence.
"Why?" asked Gracie.
"If your guilty conscience don't tell you, it's no use for me to speak about it," replied Belle, with well-deserved severity, supposed to be kept within the bounds of courteousness.
Gracie gave her head a little toss, as much as to say that Belle's opinion was quitebeneath her notice; but that her "guilty conscience" did accuse her was to be seen from the fact that she questioned no more of her classmates, but said conceitedly,—
"I finished my petticoat the very Saturday after I took it;" and then looked about her for the applause which no one had the mind to offer.
It was strange that the frequency of the disappointments of this nature which she received did not teach Gracie that those who sought the most eagerly for food for their own vanity were not the most apt to receive it; but her insatiable self-conceit needed some severe teaching before it would lose its hold of her, and such slight blows as these were without much effect on the still increasing evil.
"I am sure I could easily have made two if I had chosen," continued Gracie. "It is nothing so very great to make a petticoat in a week."
"I don't know," said Nellie, who seldom bore malice, "I think it is pretty well for little girls to make one in two weeks. I am slow, I know, but as Lily said,—poor dear Lily,—I am a steady tortoise after all, and have done my task in time."
"Is Lily's petticoat finished?" asked Mabel. "Does any one know?"
No, no one knew; but more than one thought it quite likely that Lily would be behindhand. They knew her ways well. But, before they had time for much more conversation on the subject, Miss Ashton came in, and the business of the day began.
Twelve o'clock came, bringing with it Maggie and Bessie, who also brought each the little garment she had completed; and, school being at an end, the children gathered about Miss Ashton to have her verdict on their work.
Belle's bag was the first to be examined, and Miss Ashton pronounced it very well done for a little girl who was but just learning to sew. There were some long and crookedstitches, it is true; but they were tight and close, and showed that she had taken great pains. So did Bessie's; and Mabel's also was considered a success. Carrie Ransom's did not show quite as much care, but it would pass. So much for the bags made by the four lesser children; and now Miss Ashton turned to the petticoats.
"I have here a note from Lily," she said, "which I shall read first. She sent it to me this morning, with her work, and a request that I would tell you what it contained."
"Oh," said Gracie, "I suppose she has not finished her petticoat. She never does things when she ought to, and she is always behindhand. I finished my petticoat on the first Saturday, Miss Ashton."
Now, would you not have thought that Gracie disliked Lily, and was glad to have the chance of showing up her faults? But it was not really so; for if you had asked Gracie, she would have told you that she was fond of Lily, and thought her on the whole a very goodlittle girl. But Gracie's habit of comparing herself with others to their disadvantage gave her, not only the appearance of great conceit, but also of constant fault-finding with her companions.
Miss Ashton took no notice of her speech, but opened the envelope, and took out the note, which Mrs. Norris had written at Lily's dictation.
"Miss Ashton," repeated Gracie, "I finished my petticoat Saturday before last, every stitch of it."
"Very well," said Miss Ashton, coolly, and without farther attention, read aloud:—
"Dear Miss Ashton,—I think I ought to tell you that I did not do all my petticoat myself, and it was not all because of my hurting myself, but because I did not do it in good time, but put off until I had left a good task for the last day, when my eye was so hurt I could not sew. But dear Maggie had her's alldone, and so she had time for a kindness, and she finished mine; but I thought I ought to do myself the mortification of telling you about it, for fear you and the other children should give me praise I did not deserve."And now I am very sorry I was so sure of myself to be so certain I would not fall into my bad habit again, which I find is not cured, as I said it was; but I have to try very hard yet. And I know the other children will think I thought myself very great, and I am ashamed of it, and of my procrastination too, dear Miss Ashton, which you told me would give me great trouble, and mamma too, and I see it. So please excuse me, and my eye and my head are better, thank you; but the doctor says I cannot use my eye for a good many days, and my head aches some yet."Please give my love to all the children, and tell them to come and see me."From your affectionate little scholar,"Lily Norris."
"Dear Miss Ashton,—I think I ought to tell you that I did not do all my petticoat myself, and it was not all because of my hurting myself, but because I did not do it in good time, but put off until I had left a good task for the last day, when my eye was so hurt I could not sew. But dear Maggie had her's alldone, and so she had time for a kindness, and she finished mine; but I thought I ought to do myself the mortification of telling you about it, for fear you and the other children should give me praise I did not deserve.
"And now I am very sorry I was so sure of myself to be so certain I would not fall into my bad habit again, which I find is not cured, as I said it was; but I have to try very hard yet. And I know the other children will think I thought myself very great, and I am ashamed of it, and of my procrastination too, dear Miss Ashton, which you told me would give me great trouble, and mamma too, and I see it. So please excuse me, and my eye and my head are better, thank you; but the doctor says I cannot use my eye for a good many days, and my head aches some yet.
"Please give my love to all the children, and tell them to come and see me.
"From your affectionate little scholar,
"Lily Norris."
If Lily's schoolmates did imagine that she thought herself "great," not one of them said so; and the reading of her letter was followed by many expressions of affection and sympathy, mingled with admiration for her straightforward honesty, which would not let her receive credit which was not her due.
However, when Miss Ashton unfolded the petticoat sent by Lily, and examined the sewing, it was found that, wanting though she might have been in punctuality and industry, Lily certainly deserved praise for the manner in which her work was done. It was extremely neat and even for such a little girl; and both her own share, and that completed by Maggie Bradford received much approbation from Miss Ashton.
Maggie's petticoat merited a like meed of compliment, and Nellie Ransom's apron, which came next, was pronounced remarkably well done.
"Why, Nellie, my dear," said Miss Ashton, looking with surprise at the neatly laid gathers, even hems, and regular stitches, "is it possiblethat you did this all yourself?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered steady, painstaking Nellie, who, although she was perhaps less quick than any of her schoolmates, was seldom or never behind the rest, for the reason that she was so industrious and earnest,—"yes, ma'am. An apron was not very much for me to do, but I wanted to be sure and have it nicely done."
"And, indeed, you have," said Miss Ashton, still examining the apron with pleasure. "I must give you the credit, Nellie, of saying that I never saw a piece of work better done by any child of your age. I do not know that I I would have done it as well myself."
"Mamma takes great pains to teach me to sew nicely," said Nellie, dimpling and flushing with pleasure at her teacher's praise.
"And you must have taken great pains to learn, my dear," said Miss Ashton, laying her hand on that of the modest little girl.
Two or three others received their share of praise, some more, some less, according totheir merits, though all were fairly done; and then Miss Ashton came to Gracie's petticoat.
That it gave her far less satisfaction than the rest of the little garments had done, was plainly to be seen by her countenance, as she examined it.
"Why, Gracie, my dear," she said, "is it possible that you can sew no better than this? No, it is not; for I have seen your work before, and know that you can do better if you choose. Why, Gracie, the stitches are not half as neat as those of the very little girls, and this band will not hold at all. It is impossible for me to give in such work as this. See here;" and as she drew the stitches slightly apart, with not half the strain that would come upon them in the wearing, they parted and ripped, showing with what extreme carelessness the work had been done.
I do not think Miss Ashton would have said as much to any other one of her little scholars; but she thought that this mortification and blow to her self-conceit would do Gracie noharm.
"My dear," she continued, "you have not taken time enough to do your work properly. Another time, better less haste and more care, Gracie. I shall have to take out almost the whole of this, and do it over myself, for I should be ashamed that our little orphans should have the example of such work. Your mother was away, I know, so that you could not go to her for help; but could you not ask some other person to show you how it should be done?"
"I should think I might know how to make a petticoat," said Gracie, rather saucily.
"It seems you do not," replied Miss Ashton, gravely. "As I must do this over, you cannot expect that it should be given in as your work, Gracie."
Gracie tossed her head, and looked very angry, muttering, she "did not care," then burst into tears, saying it was "too bad," and "real mean," and she knew "it was just as good as the rest, only Miss Ashton neverwould think she did any thing fit to be seen," and altogether allowed her temper and wounded vanity so far to get the better of her that Miss Ashton bade her leave the room.
I am glad to say, however, that a few moments' solitude and reflection in the cloak-room brought her to her right senses; and before she went home, she returned to her teacher, and begged her pardon for the temper and disrespect she had shown.
"But my work was finished long before any of the other children's, Miss Ashton," she said once more, after the lady had assured her she was forgiven, giving her at the same time a gentle, and, alas! too oft-repeated warning against the hold her besetting sin was gaining on her temper and character.
Miss Ashton shook her head.
"But it is all thrown away, and worse than thrown away, Gracie," she said, "for it will need more time for me to take it to pieces and do it over again than it would have taken to make it myself at once. I can give you nocredit, my child, for striving to outstrip your schoolmates, merely that you might have the pleasure of saying that you had done so. You are severe with Lily for her want of punctuality and promptness; but too great haste, especially when it springs from a bad motive, is perhaps as bad. And, Gracie, Lily sees and acknowledges her fault, while you will not."
Gracie hung her head, but she was none the more convinced; and, in spite of her confession, went home, thinking herself hardly used, and Miss Ashton very unjust.
With the exception of Gracie, there was not one of the little work-women whose sewing was not at least passable, and her garment tolerably well made; and they were dismissed, well satisfied with the praise they received, and the knowledge that their own self-denial and effort had helped those who were in need.
Mrs. Norris had begged that Maggie and Bessie would come and see Lily that afternoon, as she was now well enough to receive them, and tell her all that had taken place in themorning; and accordingly they presented themselves in Lily's room, bringing with them their dolls.
"My dollies haven't had their dresses changed since Saturday, before I was hurt," said Lily, at the sight of the last-mentioned young ladies. "Will you dress them for me while you tell me about this morning?"
Dolls and dolls' clothes were brought forth, Lily possessing a multitude of both; and the two little sisters fell to dressing the neglected children of an invalid mamma.
"It wasn't putting off this time," said Lily, apologetically, "for I really did seem to be so tired every time I tried to do any thing, even play, that mamma told me I had better lie still."
"Yes, we know," said Bessie, "and even if it was procrastination, dolls don't really suffer, so I s'pose it's not much harm to put off doing things for them. It don't hurt," she added thoughtfully, as she drew a comb about three inches long through the flowing locks of thewaxen Georgianna upon her lap,—"it don't hurt to put off play and pleasure, I believe, but only duties, and things that will do good to others."
"Yes," said Lily, rather ruefully, as if she wished that pleasures and duties might alike fall under the same head, "so I find most people think. The trouble of it, and what makes it so hard is, that when a duty and a pleasure both come at once, it 'most always seems right to take the duty first; and I like pleasure so much better than duty that I expect that's the reason I procrastinate so often."
"I believe that's the case with most people," said Maggie, putting on her wisdom cap to suit the solemnity of the conversation. "I find the human race generally like pleasure better than duty, 'specially if the duty is very disagreeable, and the pleasure is very nice."
"That's the way with me, anyhow," said Lily, with a sigh, as she lay back upon her sofa pillows once more. "And sometimes, evenwhen the duty is not very disagreeable, I feel like putting it off, just because I know I ought to do it, I believe. That petticoat was not so very horrid to do, and yet I let every thing put me away from doing it, till at last you know the consequence."
"Miss Ashton praised your petticoat very much, anyhow," said Maggie. "She said you had done the most of it, and it was allwelldone."
"She praised Maggie's part too," said Bessie, unwilling that her sister should not receive her full share of credit, "and she said the button-hole was even better than that on Maggie's own petticoat."
"Practice makes perfect, you know," said Maggie. "Miss Ashton said not one piece of work was better made than that petticoat, except Nellie's apron, and that was the best of all. Miss Ashton seemed quite surprised at it, it was so very nice. And I don't mean to tell tales about Gracie, but you would hear about it, I suppose, when you go back to school, sowe may as well tell you, 'cause you want to know about every thing."
And between them, first one taking up the tale, and then the other, Lily had soon heard a full and particular account of all the occurrences of the morning.
"And did not any one say hateful things about me when Miss Ashton read my letter, and they knew I had not done what I was so sure I would do?" asked Lily.
"No indeed," said Bessie. "We wouldn't have listened to them if they had wanted to; but then no one would say an unkind thing about you when you were so honest and true, Lily. They were only sorry for you, and didn't seem to think you were naughty one bit."
"But I was," said Lily, "and I'm never going to boast myself again, for I do feel too ashamed when I think how sure I was that I would do so much. I don't believe I ever will cure myself of procrastination, do you?"
"Why, yes," answered Bessie, "if you try enough."
"I'm sure I did try," said Lily, "but it was no use. If I did not forget so easily, I think I would not have so much trouble from procrastination; but, you see, sometimes I leave a thing just for one moment, at least I mean to come back in a moment, and then I never think any thing more about it. That was the way the puppy found my petticoat lying on the floor, and dragged it about till it had to be washed before I could sew on it, and then it was too late."
"I used to be just as careless as that," said Maggie; "and though mamma says I have improved a great deal, and am pretty neat and careful now, yet I find it hard work still, and I have to make a rule for myself not to leave a thing one moment after I know I ought to do it, or else I am almost sure to forget. I don't always keep that rule yet," she added, rather remorsefully, "but it helps me, and makes me better than I used to be."
"Is that what cured you of carelessness? for I don't think you are much careless now," said Lily.
"Yes," said Maggie, slowly, "that—and—and"—here she fell into a sudden fit of bashfulness at her own confession, and Bessie had to help her out of it.
"Partly that, and partly because she asked Jesus to help her," said the little sister. "And He did, 'cause He always does if we really and truly ask Him. Did you ever ask Him to help you, Lily?"
"What, about putting off?" said Lily. "Why, no, I never thought much about it—and—besides—it seems such a queer thing to pray about, and to ask Jesus to help you in. It is not a sin, you know. It does make me sin sometimes," she added, thoughtfully, as she recalled various naughtinesses into which her sad habit had led her. "Oh, if you knew something it had made me do, you would think I was too horrid!" She was thinking of the way in which she had spoken to her mother but a few days since.
"Well, then," said Bessie, tenderly, "isn't that a reason for asking Him? I don't b'lieve Jesus thinks any thing is no matter if it makes us do something that is wrong, and I don't b'lieve He thinks even a bad habit is a little thing, and I'm sure He'll help you if you only ask Him."
"Sometimes when I was praying, I have thought maybe I had better ask Jesus not to let me put off," said Lily, "but I did not thinkmuchabout it, and it hardly seemed worth while, and I generally thought I could do it some other time."
Lily said these last words in rather a shamefaced manner, as if she were mortified to recollect and confess that she had allowed her failing to come even between her and the Great Helper.
"But you will ask Him now, won't you?" asked Bessie anxiously.
"Yes, I will," said Lily earnestly, and as if she really meant it; and I am glad to say that she kept her resolution, and "put off" no longer asking the help which could not, andwould not fail her. And receiving what she sought, as all shall do who seek it in truth, and in the right spirit, and continuing also to strive with the temptation of the moment which bids her postpone the duty before her, our Lily is gaining the victory over the enemy which brought her into so much trouble, and had more than once led her so far astray.