Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.Miss Bethia Barnes was a plain and rather peculiar single woman, a good deal past middle age, who lived by herself in a little house about half way between the two village’s. She was generally called Aunt Bethia by the neighbours, but she had not gained the title as some old ladies do, because of the general loving-kindness of their nature. She was a good woman and very useful, but she was not always very agreeable. To do just exactly right at all times, and in all circumstances, was the first wish of her heart; the second wish of her heart was, that everybody else should do so likewise, and she had fallen into the belief, that she was not only responsible for her own well-being and well-doing, but for that of all with whom she came in contact.Of course it is right that each individual in a community should do what may be done to help all the rest to be good and happy. But people cannot be made good and happy against their own will, and Miss Bethia’s advances in that direction were too often made in a way which first of all excited the opposition of the person she intended to benefit. This was almost always the case where the young people of the village were concerned. Those who had known her long and well, did not heed her plain and sharp speaking, because of her kindly intentions, and it was known besides that her sharpest words were generally forerunners of her kindest deeds. But the young people did not so readily take these things into consideration, and she was by no means a favourite with them.So it is not surprising, that when she made her appearance one afternoon at the minister’s house, David, who was there alone with little Mary, was not very well pleased to see her. Little Mary was pleased. Even Aunt Bethia had only sweet words for the pet and baby; and happily the child’s pretty welcome, and then her delight over the little cake of maple sugar that Miss Bethia had brought her, occupied that lady’s attention till David had time to smooth his face again. It helped him a little to think that his father and mother being away from home, their visitor might not stay long. He was mistaken, however.“I heard your father and mother had gone over to Mrs Spry’s; but I had made my calculations for a visit here just now, and I thought I’d come. They’ll be coming home to-night, I expect?” added she, as she untied her bonnet, and prepared herself to enjoy her visit.“Yes,” said David, hesitating. “They are coming home to-night—I think.”He spoke rather doubtfully. He knew they had intended to come home, but it seemed to him just as if something would certainly happen to detain them if Miss Bethia were to stay. And besides it came into his mind that if she doubted about the time of their return, she would go and visit somewhere else in the village, and come back another time. That would be a much better plan, he thought, with a rueful glance at the book he had intended to enjoy all the afternoon. But Miss Bethia had quite other thoughts.“Well, it can’t be helped. They’ll be home to-morrow if they don’t come to-night; and I can have a visit with you and Violet. I shall admire to!” said Miss Bethia, reassuringly, as a doubtful look passed over David’s face.“Violet is at school,” said he, “and all the rest.”“Best place for them,” said Miss Bethia. “Where is Debby?”“She has gone home for a day or two. Her sister is sick.”“She is coming back, is she? I heard your mother was going to try and get along without her this winter. That won’t pay. ‘Penny wise and pound foolish’ that would be,” said Miss Bethia.David said nothing to this.“Better pay Debby Stone, and board her, too, than pay the doctor. Ambition ain’t strength. Home-work, and sewing-machine, and parish visiting—that’s burning the candle at both ends. That don’teverpay.”“Mamma knows best what to do,” said David, with some offence in his voice.“She knows better than you, I presume,” said the visitor. “Ah! yes. She knows well enough what is best. But the trouble is, folks can’t always do what they know is best. We’ve got to do the best we can inthisworld—and there’s none of us too wise to make mistakes, at that. She got the washing done and the clothes sprinkled before she went, did she? Pretty well for Debby, so early in the week. Letty ought to calculate to do this ironing for her mother. Hadn’t you better put on the flats and have them ready by the time she gets home from school?”“Mamma said nothing about it,” said David.“No, it ain’t likely. But that makes no difference. Letty ought to know without being told. Put the flats on to heat, and I’ll make a beginning. We’ll have just as good a visit.”David laughed. He could not help it. “A good visit,” said he to himself. Aloud he said something about its being too much trouble for Miss Bethia.“Trouble for a friend is the best kind of pleasure,” said she. “And don’t you worry. Your mother’s clothes will bear to be looked at. Patches ain’t a sin these days, but the contrary. Step a little spryer, can’t you! We can visit all the same.”It was Miss Bethia’s way to take the reins in her own hand wherever she was, and David could not have prevented her if he had tried, which he did not. He could only do as he was bidden. In a much shorter time than Debby would have taken, David thought, all preliminary arrangements were made, and Miss Bethia was busy at work. Little Mary stood on a stool at the end of the table, and gravely imitated her movements with a little iron of her own.“Now this is what I call a kind of pleasant,” said Miss Bethia. “Now let’s have a good visit before the children come home.”“Shall I read to you?” said David, a little at a loss as to what might be expected from him in the way of entertainment.“Well—no. I can read to myself at home, and I would rather talk if you had just as lief.”And she did talk on every imaginable subject, with very little pause, till she came round at last to old Mr Bent’s death.“I’d have given considerable to have gone to the funeral,” said she. “I’ve known Timothy Bent for over forty years, and I’d have liked to see the last of him. I thought of coming up to ask your papa if he wouldn’t take me over when he went, but I thought perhaps your mamma would want to go. Did she?”No, David said; he had driven his father over.“Your papa preached, did he?” and then followed a great many questions about the funeral, and the mourners, and the bearers, and then about the text and the sermon. And then she added a hope that he “realised” the value of the privileges he enjoyed above others in having so many opportunities to hear his father preach. And when she said this, David knew that she was going to give him the “serious talking to” which she always felt it her duty to give faithfully to the young people of the families where she visited.They always expected it. Davie and Jem used to compare notes about these “talks,” and used to boast to one another about the methods they took to prevent, or interrupt, or answer them, as the case might be. But when Miss Bethia spoke about Mr Bent and the funeral, it brought back the sermon and what his father had said to him on his way home, and all the troubled thoughts that had come to him afterwards. So instead of shrugging his shoulders, and making believe very busy with something else, as he had often done under Miss Bethia’s threatening lectures, he sat looking out of the window with so grave a face, that she in her turn, made a little pause, of surprise, and watched him as she went on with her work.“Yes,” she went on in a little, “it is a great privilege you have, and that was a solemn occasion, a very solemn occasion—but you did not tell me the text.”David told her the text and a good part of the sermon, too. He told it so well, and grew so interested and animated as he went on, that in a little Miss Bethia set down the flat-iron, and seated herself to listen. Jem came in before he was through.“Well! well! I feel just as if I had been to meeting,” said Miss Bethia.“Well done, Davie!” said Jem. “Isn’t our Davie a smart boy, Aunt Bethia? I wish Frank could have heard that.”“Yes, so I told papa,” said David, gravely.“It is a great responsibility to have such privileges as you have, boys—” began Miss Bethia.“As Davie has, you mean, Miss Bethia,” said Jem. “He goes with papa almost always—”“And as you have, too. Take care that you don’t neglect them, so that they may not rise up in judgment against you some day—”But Miss Bethia was obliged to interrupt herself to shake hands with Violet, who came in with her little brother and sister. Jem laughed at the blank look in his sister’s face.“Miss Bethia has commenced your ironing for you,” said he.“Yes—I see. You shouldn’t have troubled yourself about it, Miss Bethia.”“I guess I know pretty well by this time what I should do, and what I should let alone,” said Miss Bethia, sharply, not pleased with the look on Violet’s face, or the heartiness of her greeting. “It was your mother I was thinking of. I expect the heft of Debby’s work will fall on her.”“Debby will be back to-morrow or next day, I hope,” said Violet. “But it was very kind of you to do it, Miss Bethia, and I will begin in a minute.”“You had better go to work and get supper ready, and get that out of the way; and by that time the starched clothes will be done, and you can do the rest. I expect the children want their supper by this time,” said Miss Bethia.“Yes, I dare say it would be better.”Violet was very good-tempered, and did not feel inclined to resent Miss Bethia’s tone of command. And besides, she knew it would do no good to resent it, so she went away to put aside her books, and her out-of-door’s dress, and Miss Bethia turned her attention to the boys again.“Yes, that was a solemn sermon, boys, and, David, I am glad to see that you must have paid good attention to remember it so well. I hope it may do you good, and all who heard it.”“Our Davie won’t make a bad preacher himself, will he, Miss Bethia?” said Jem. “He has about made up his mind to it now.”“His making up his mind don’t amount to much, one way or the other,” said Miss Bethia. “Boys’ minds are soon made up, but they ain’t apt to stay made up—not to anything but foolishness. That’s my belief, and I’ve seen a good many boys at one time and another.”“But that’s not the way with our Davie,” said Jem. “You wouldn’t find many boys that would remember a sermon so well, and repeat it so well as he does. Now would you, Aunt Bethia?”“Nonsense, Jem, that’s enough,” said Davie. “He’s chaffing, Aunt Bethia.”“He’s entirely welcome,” said Miss Bethia, smiling grimly. “Though I don’t see anything funny in the idea of David’s being a minister, or you either, for that matter.”“Funny! No. Anything but funny! A very serious matter that would be,” said Jem. “We couldn’t afford to have so many ministers in the family, Miss Bethia. I am not going to be a minister. I am going to make a lot of money and be a rich man, and then I’ll buy a house for papa, and send Davie’s boys to college.”They all laughed.“You may laugh, but you’ll see,” said Jem. “I am not going to be a minister. Hard work and poor pay. I have seen too much of that, Miss Bethia.”He was “chaffing” her. Miss Bethia knew it quite well, and though she had said he was entirely welcome, it made her angry because she could not see the joke, and because she thought it was not respectful nor polite on Jem’s part to joke with her, as indeed it was not. And besides this was a sore subject with Miss Bethia—the poverty of ministers. She had at one time or another spent a great many of her valuable words on those who were supposed to be influential in the guidance of parish affairs, with a design to prove that their affairs were not managed as they ought to be. There was no reason in the world, but shiftlessness and sinful indifference, to prevent all being made and kept straight between the minister and people as regarded salary and support, she declared, and it was a shame that a man like their minister should find himself pressed or hampered, in providing the comforts—sometimes the necessaries of life—for his family.That was putting it strong, the authorities thought and said, but Miss Bethia never would allow that it was too strong, and she never tired of putting it.“The labourer is worthy of his hire.”“They that serve the temple must live by the temple.” And with a house to keep up and his children to clothe and feed, no wonder that Mr Inglis might be troubled many a time when he thought of how they were to be educated, and of what was to become of them in case he should be taken away.There was no theme on which Miss Bethia was so eloquent as this, and she was eloquent on most themes. She never tired of this one, and answered all excuses and expostulations with a force and sharpness that, as a general thing, silenced, if they did not convince. Whether she helped her cause by this assertion of its claims, is a question. She took great credit for her faithfulness in the matter, at any rate, and as she had not in the past, so she had made up her mind that she should not in the future be found wanting in this respect.But it was one thing to tell her neighbours their duty with regard to their minister, and it was quite another thing to listen to a lad like Jem making disparaging remarks as to a minister’s possessions and prospects. “Hard work and poor pay,” said Jem, and she felt very much like resenting his words, as a reflection on the people of whom she was one. Jem needed putting down.“Your pa wouldn’t say so. He ain’t one to wish to serve two masters. He ain’t a mammon worshipper,” said Miss Bethia, solemnly.“No!” said Jem, opening his eyes very wide. “And I don’t intend to be one either. I intend to make a good living, and perhaps become a rich man.”“Don’t, Jem,” said Violet, softly. She meant “Don’t vex Miss Bethia,” as Jem very well knew, but he only laughed and said:“Don’t do what? Become a rich man? or a worshipper of mammon? Don’t be silly, Letty.”“Jem’s going to be a blacksmith,” said Edward. “You needn’t laugh. He put a shoe on Mr Strong’s old Jerry the other day. I saw him do it.”“Pooh,” said Jem. “That’s nothing. Anybody could do that. I am going to make a steam-engine some day.”“You’re a smart boy, if we are to believe you,” said Miss Bethia. “Did Mr Strong know that the blacksmith let you meddle with his horse’s shoes? I should like to have seen his face when he heard it.”“One must begin with somebody’s horse, you know. And Peter Munro said he couldn’t have done it better himself,” said Jem, triumphantly.“Peter Munro knows about horseshoes, and that’s about all he does know. He ought to know that you might be about better business than hanging about his shop, learning no good.”“Horseshoes no good!” said Jem, laughing.“Jem, dear!” pleaded Violet.“But it’s dreadful to hear Miss Bethia speak disrespectfully of horseshoes,” said Jem.“I think there’s something more to be expected from your father’s son than horseshoes,” said Miss Bethia.“But horseshoes may do for a beginning,” said David. “And by and by, perhaps, it may be engines, and railways; who knows?”“And good horseshoes are better than bad sermons, and they pay better than good ones,” said Jem. “And I’m bound to be a rich man. You’ll see, Miss Bethia.”Then he went on to tell of the wonderful things that were to happen when he became a rich man. Old Don was to be superannuated, and his father was to have a new horse, and a new fur coat to wear when the weather was cold. His mother and Violet were to have untold splendours in the way of dress, and the children as well. Davie was to go to college, and there should be a new bell to the church, and a new fence to the grave-yard, and Miss Bethia was to have a silk gown of any colour she liked, and a knocker to her front door. There was a great deal of fun and laughter, in which even Miss Bethia joined, and when Violet called them to tea, Jem whispered to David that they had escaped her serious lecture for that time.After tea, they all went again to the kitchen, which, indeed, was as pleasant as many parlours, and while Violet washed the tea-dishes, Miss Bethia went on with the ironing, and the boys went on with their lessons. Just as they were all beginning to wonder what could be delaying the return home of their father and mother, there came a messenger to say that they had been obliged to go much farther than Mr Spry’s, to see a sick person, and that as they might not be home that night, the children were not to wait for them past their usual time of going to bed.There were exclamations of disappointment from the younger ones, and little Mary, who was getting sleepy and a little cross, began to cry.“I had a presentiment that we should not see them to-night,” said David, taking his little sister on his lap to comfort her. “Never mind, Polly. Mamma will be home in the morning, and we must be able to tell her that we have all been good, and that nobody has cried or been cross, but quite the contrary.”“I wish your mother knew that I had happened along. It would have set her mind at rest about you all,” said Miss Bethia.The young people were not so sure of that, but there would have been no use in saying so.“Oh! mamma knows we can get on nicely for one night. But she will be sorry to miss your visit, Miss Bethia,” said Violet.“She won’t miss it. I shall have a visit with her when she gets home. And now hadn’t you better put the children to bed before you set down?”But the children, except little Mary, were in the habit of putting themselves to bed, and were not expected to do so till eight o’clock, as they declared with sufficient decision. So nothing more was said about it. If it had been any other child but little Mary. Miss Bethia would have counselled summary measures with her, and she would have been sent to bed at once. As it was the little lady had her own way for a while, and kept her eyes wide open, while David comforted her for the absence of mamma. He played with her and told her stories, and by and by undressed her gently, kissing her hands and her little bare feet, and murmuring such tender words, that baby grew good and sweet, and forgot that there was any one in the world she loved better than Davie.As for Miss Bethia, as she watched them she was wondering whether it could be the rough, thoughtless schoolboy, to whom she had so often considered it her duty to administer both instruction and reproof. She was not, as a general thing, very tolerant of boys. She intended to do her duty by the boys of her acquaintance in the matter of rebuke and correction, and in the matter of patience and forbearance as well, and these things covered the whole ground, as far as her relations with boys were concerned. And so when she saw David kissing his little sister’s hands and feet, and heard him softly prompting her in her “good words” as the eyelids fell over the sleepy little eyes, she experienced quite a new sensation. She looked upon a boy with entire approval. He had pleased her in the afternoon, when he had told her so much about his father’s sermon. But she had hardly been conscious of her pleasure then, because of the earnestness of her desire to impress him and his brother with a sense of their responsibility as to the use they made of their privileges and opportunities. It came back to her mind, however, as she sat watching him and his little sister, and she acknowledged to herself that she was pleased, and that David was not a common boy. David would never have guessed her thoughts by the first words she spoke.“Put her to bed,” said she. “She’ll take cold.”“Yes, I will,” said David, but he did not move to do it. “Miss Bethia,” said he in a little, “if wee Polly were to die to-night and go to Heaven, do you suppose she would always stay a little child as she is now?”Miss Bethia set down her flat-irons and looked at him in surprise.“What on earth put that into your head?” said she, hastily.“Look at her,” said David. “It doesn’t seem as though she could be any sweeter even in Heaven, does it?”Violet came and knelt down beside her brother.“Is she not a precious darling?” said she, kissing her softly.“It isn’t much we know about how folks will look in heaven,” said Miss Bethia, gravely.“No,” said David. “Only that we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.”“If we ever get there,” said Miss Bethia.“Yes, if we ever get there,” said David. “But if our little Polly were to die to-night, she would be sure to get there, and what I would like to know is, whether she would always be little Polly there, so that when the rest of us get there, too, we should know her at once without being told.”“She would have a new name given her,” said Violet.“Yes, and a crown and a harp, and a white robe, and wings, perhaps. But she might have all that and be our little Polly still. I wonder how it will be. What do you think, Miss Bethia?”“I haven’t thought about it. I don’t seem to remember that there is anything said about it in the Bible. And there is no other way of knowing anything about it—as I see.”“No. Still one cannot but think of these things. Don’t you remember, Violet?“Not as child shall we again behold her,But when with rapture wild.In our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child.”“Yes.” Violet remembered the words, and added:“But a fair maiden in our Father’s mansion.”“I don’t like to think that may be the way.”“But that ain’t in the Bible,” said Miss Bethia.“No,” said David. “And I like best the idea of there being little children there. Of course there are children now, because they are going there every day. But if they grow up there—afterwards, when the end comes, there will be no little children.”“How you talk!” said Aunt Bethia. “I don’t more than half believe that it’s right for you to follow out such notions. If the Bible don’t say any thing about it, it is a sign it’s something we needn’t worry about, for we don’t need to know it.”“No, we don’t need to worry about it,” said David. “But one cannot help having such thoughts in their minds sometimes.”There was nothing more said for some time. Violet still knelt by her brother’s side, and the eyes of both were resting on the baby’s lovely face. It was Miss Bethia who spoke first.“I was a twin. My sister died when she was three years old. I remember how she looked as well as I remember my mother’s face, and she didn’t die till I was over forty. I should know her in a minute if I were to see her. It would seem queer to see us together—twins so—wouldn’t it?—she a child and me an old woman,” said Miss Bethia, with something like a sob in her voice. “It will be all in her favour—the difference, I mean.”“‘Whom the gods love die young,’” said David. “But that is a Pagan sentiment. Papa said, the other day, that victory must mean more to the man who has gone through the war, than to him who has hardly had time to strike a blow. Even before the victory it must be grand, he said, to be able to say like Paul, ‘I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.’ And, perhaps, Miss Bethia, your crown may be brighter than your little sister’s, after all.”“It will owe none of its brightness to me,” said Miss Bethia, with sudden humility. “And I don’t suppose I shall begrudge the brightness of other folks’ crowns when I get there, if I ever do.”In the pause that followed, David went and laid the baby in her cot, and when he returned the children came with him, and the talk went on. They all had something to say about what they should see and do, and the people they should meet with when they got there. But it would not bear repeating, all that they said, and they fell in a little while into talk of other things, and Jem, as his way was, made the little ones laugh at his funny sayings, and even Violet smiled sometimes. But David was very grave and quiet, and Miss Bethia, for a good while, did not seem to hear a word, or to notice what was going on.But by and by something was said about the lessons of the next day, and she roused herself up enough to drop her accustomed words about “privileges and responsibilities,” and then went on to tell how different every thing had been in her young days, and before she knew it she was giving them her own history. There was not much to tell. That is, there had been few incidents in her life, but a great deal of hard work, many trials and disappointments—and many blessings as well.“And,” said Aunt Bethia, “if I were to undertake, I couldn’t always tell you which was which. For sometimes the things I wished most for, and worked hardest to get, didn’t amount to but very little when I got them. And the things I was most afraid of went clear out of sight, or turned right round into blessings, as soon as I came near enough to touch them. And I tell you, children, there is nothing in the world that it’s worth while being afraid of but sin. You can’t be too much afraid of that. It is a solemn thing to live in the world, especially such times as these. But there’s no good talking. Each one must learn for himself; and it seems as though folks would need to live one life, just to teach them how to live. I don’t suppose there’s any thing I could say to you that would make much difference. Talk don’t seem to amount to much, any way.”“I am sure you must have seen a great deal in your life, Miss Bethia, and might tell us a great many things to do us good,” said Violet, but she did not speak very enthusiastically, for she was not very fond of Miss Bethia’s good advice any more than her brothers; and little Jessie got them happily out of the difficulty, by asking:“What did you use to do when you were a little girl, Aunt Bethia?”“Pretty much what other little girls did. We lived down in New Hampshire, then, and what ever made father come away up here for, is more than I can tell. I had a hard time after we came up here. I helped father and the boys to clear up our farm. I used to burn brush, and make sugar, and plant potatoes and corn, and spin and knit. I kept school twenty-one seasons, off and on. I didn’t know much, but a little went a great way in those days. I used to teach six days in the week, and make out a full week’s spinning or weaving, as well. I was strong and smart then, and ambitious to make a living and more. After a while, my brothers moved out West, and I had to stay at home with father and mother, and pretty soon mother died. I have been on the old place ever since. It is ten years since father died. I’ve stayed there alone most of the time since, and I suppose I shall till my time comes. And children, I’ve found out that life don’t amount to much, except as it is spent as a time of preparation—and for the chance it gives you to do good to your neighbours; and it ain’t a great while since I knew that, only as I heard folks say it. It ain’t much I’ve done of it.”There was nothing said for a minute or two, and then Ned made them all laugh by asking, gravely:“Miss Bethia, are you very rich?”Miss Bethia laughed, too.“Why, yes; I suppose I may say I am rich. I’ve got all I shall ever want to spend, and more, too. I’ve got all I want, and that’s more than most folks who are called rich can say. And I have earned all I’ve got. But it ain’t what one has got, so much as what one has done, that makes life pleasant to look back upon.”“It is pleasant to have plenty of money, too, however,” said Jem.“And people can do good with their money,” said Violet.“Yes, that is true; but money don’t stand for everything, even to do good with. Money won’t stand instead of a life spent in God’s service. Money, even to do good with, is a poor thing compared with that. Money won’t go a great ways in the making of happiness, without something else.”“Would you like to live your life over again, Miss Bethia?” asked Violet.“No—I shouldn’t. Not unless I could live it a great deal better. And I know myself too well by this time to suppose I should do that. It wouldn’t pay, I don’t believe. But oh! children, it is a grand thing to be young, to have your whole life before you to give to the Lord. You can’t begin too young. Boys, and you, too, Violet—you have great privileges and responsibilities.”This was Miss Bethia’s favourite way of putting their duty before them. She had said this about “privilege and responsibility” two or three times to-night already, as the boys knew she would. It had come to be a by-word among them. But even Jem did not smile this time, she was so much in earnest, and Violet and David looked very grave.“‘Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life.’ That’s what you’ve got to do. ‘Take the whole armour of God,’ and fight His battles.”The boys looked at each other, remembering all that had been said about this of late.“Your father said right. It is a grand thing to come to the end of life and be able to say, ‘I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.’”“Like Mr Great Heart in the Pilgrim’s Progress,” said Ned.“Yes. Sometimes it’s lions, and sometimes it’s giants, but it’s fighting all the way through, and God gives the victory. Yes,” continued Miss Bethia, after a pause, “it’s fighting all the way through, and it don’t so much matter how it looks to other folks. Horseshoes or sermons, it don’t matter, so that it is done to the Lord. Your father, he is a standard-bearer; and your mother, she helps the Lord’s cause by helping him, and so she fights the good fight, too. There’s enough for all to do, and the sooner you begin, the more you can do, and the better it will be—And I’m sure it’s time these children were in bed now.”Yes, it was more than time, as all acknowledged, but they did not go very willingly for all that.“Obedience is the first duty of a soldier, Ned, boy,” said Jem.“If we could only know that we were soldiers,” said David, gravely; and then he added to himself, “The very first thing is to enrol one’s name.”“I wonder all the girls don’t like Aunt Bethia more,” said Jessie, when Violet came up to take her candle in a little. “I’m sure she’s nice—sometimes.”“Yes, she is always very good, and to-night she is pleasant,” said Violet. “And I’m not at all sorry that she came, though mamma is away. Good-night, dear, and pleasant dreams.”Upon the whole, Miss Bethia’s visit was a success. Mr and Mrs Inglis came home next day to find her and little Mary in possession of the house. David was waiting to receive them at the gate, and all the others had gone to school. Violet had proposed to stay at home to entertain their guest, but this Miss Bethia would not hear of. The baby and she were quite equal to the entertainment of one another, to say nothing of David, upon whom Miss Bethia was evidently beginning to look with eyes of favour. They had not got tired of one another when mamma came to the rescue, and nothing mattered much either to David or his little sister when mamma was at hand.Mr Inglis was almost ill with a cold; too ill to care to go to his study and his books that day, but not too ill to lie on the sofa and talk with—or rather listen to, Miss Bethia. This was a great pleasure to her, for she had a deep respect for the minister, and indeed, the respect was mutual. So they discussed parish matters a little; and all the wonderful things that were happening in the world, they discussed a good deal. There was a new book, too, which Miss Bethia had got—a very interesting book to read, but of whose orthodoxy she could not be quite sure till she had discussed it with the minister. There were new thoughts in it, and old thoughts clothed in unfamiliar language, and she wanted his help in Comparing it with the only standard of truth in the opinion of both.So the first day was successful, and so were all the other days of her visit, though in a different way. There were no signs of Debby’s return, but Mrs Inglis had, in the course of her married life, been too often left to her own resources to make this a matter of much consequence for a few days. The house was as orderly, and the meals were as regular; and though some things in the usual routine were left undone because of Debby’s absence and Miss Bethia’s presence in the house, still everything went smoothly, and all the more so that Miss Bethia, who had had a varied experience in the way of long visits, knew just when to sit still and seem to see nothing, and when to put forth a helping hand. Her visits, as a general thing, were not without some drawbacks, and if Mrs Inglis had had her choice, she would have preferred that this one should have taken place when Debby’s presence in the kitchen would have left her free to attend to her guest. But this was a visit altogether pleasant. There was not even the little jarring and uncomfortableness, rather apt to arise out of her interest in the children, and her efforts in their behalf. Not that she neglected them or their affairs. David, of whom she saw most, had a feeling that her eye was upon him whenever he was in the house, but her observation was more silent than usual, and even when she took him to task, as she did more than once, he did not for some reason or other, feel inclined to resent her sharp little speeches as he had sometimes done. She did not overlook him by any means, but asked a great many questions about his books, and lessons, and amusements, and about when he was going to college, and about what he was to be afterwards, and behind his back praised him to his mother as a sensible, well-behaved boy, which, of course, pleased his mother, and made David himself laugh heartily when he heard of it.Still, though her visit had been most agreeable, it was pleasant to be alone again, when it came to an end, and little Jessie expressed what the others only thought when she said:“It’s nice to have Miss Bethia come once in a while, and it’s nice to have her go away, too.”Debby did not come back, but everything went on as nearly as possible as usual in her absence. They hoped to have her again, by and by, so no effort was made to supply her place. If she could not come back, Violet would possibly have to stay at home after the Christmas holidays to help in the house, and in the meantime, David did what “a sensible, well-behaved boy” might be expected to do, to supply her place. And that was a great deal. David was a manly boy, and he was none the less manly that he did a great many things for his mother, that boys are not generally supposed to like to do. What those things were, need not be told, lest boys not so sensible, should call his manliness in question, and so lose their interest in him.Indeed, it must be confessed that, sensible boy as he was, David himself had some doubts as to the manliness of some of the work that fell to him to do about this time, and did not care that his morning’s occupations should be alluded to often, before Jem and Ned. But he had no doubt as to the help and comfort he was to his mother during these days, when she needed both even more than he knew. It is a manly thing in a boy to be his mother’s “right hand,” and David was that, and more than that, during these happy days, when they were so much alone together.For they were happy days to them all. In spite of work and weariness, and anxiety, and a sudden sharp dread of something else harder to bear than these, that came now and then to one at least of the household, they were very happy days to them all.

Miss Bethia Barnes was a plain and rather peculiar single woman, a good deal past middle age, who lived by herself in a little house about half way between the two village’s. She was generally called Aunt Bethia by the neighbours, but she had not gained the title as some old ladies do, because of the general loving-kindness of their nature. She was a good woman and very useful, but she was not always very agreeable. To do just exactly right at all times, and in all circumstances, was the first wish of her heart; the second wish of her heart was, that everybody else should do so likewise, and she had fallen into the belief, that she was not only responsible for her own well-being and well-doing, but for that of all with whom she came in contact.

Of course it is right that each individual in a community should do what may be done to help all the rest to be good and happy. But people cannot be made good and happy against their own will, and Miss Bethia’s advances in that direction were too often made in a way which first of all excited the opposition of the person she intended to benefit. This was almost always the case where the young people of the village were concerned. Those who had known her long and well, did not heed her plain and sharp speaking, because of her kindly intentions, and it was known besides that her sharpest words were generally forerunners of her kindest deeds. But the young people did not so readily take these things into consideration, and she was by no means a favourite with them.

So it is not surprising, that when she made her appearance one afternoon at the minister’s house, David, who was there alone with little Mary, was not very well pleased to see her. Little Mary was pleased. Even Aunt Bethia had only sweet words for the pet and baby; and happily the child’s pretty welcome, and then her delight over the little cake of maple sugar that Miss Bethia had brought her, occupied that lady’s attention till David had time to smooth his face again. It helped him a little to think that his father and mother being away from home, their visitor might not stay long. He was mistaken, however.

“I heard your father and mother had gone over to Mrs Spry’s; but I had made my calculations for a visit here just now, and I thought I’d come. They’ll be coming home to-night, I expect?” added she, as she untied her bonnet, and prepared herself to enjoy her visit.

“Yes,” said David, hesitating. “They are coming home to-night—I think.”

He spoke rather doubtfully. He knew they had intended to come home, but it seemed to him just as if something would certainly happen to detain them if Miss Bethia were to stay. And besides it came into his mind that if she doubted about the time of their return, she would go and visit somewhere else in the village, and come back another time. That would be a much better plan, he thought, with a rueful glance at the book he had intended to enjoy all the afternoon. But Miss Bethia had quite other thoughts.

“Well, it can’t be helped. They’ll be home to-morrow if they don’t come to-night; and I can have a visit with you and Violet. I shall admire to!” said Miss Bethia, reassuringly, as a doubtful look passed over David’s face.

“Violet is at school,” said he, “and all the rest.”

“Best place for them,” said Miss Bethia. “Where is Debby?”

“She has gone home for a day or two. Her sister is sick.”

“She is coming back, is she? I heard your mother was going to try and get along without her this winter. That won’t pay. ‘Penny wise and pound foolish’ that would be,” said Miss Bethia.

David said nothing to this.

“Better pay Debby Stone, and board her, too, than pay the doctor. Ambition ain’t strength. Home-work, and sewing-machine, and parish visiting—that’s burning the candle at both ends. That don’teverpay.”

“Mamma knows best what to do,” said David, with some offence in his voice.

“She knows better than you, I presume,” said the visitor. “Ah! yes. She knows well enough what is best. But the trouble is, folks can’t always do what they know is best. We’ve got to do the best we can inthisworld—and there’s none of us too wise to make mistakes, at that. She got the washing done and the clothes sprinkled before she went, did she? Pretty well for Debby, so early in the week. Letty ought to calculate to do this ironing for her mother. Hadn’t you better put on the flats and have them ready by the time she gets home from school?”

“Mamma said nothing about it,” said David.

“No, it ain’t likely. But that makes no difference. Letty ought to know without being told. Put the flats on to heat, and I’ll make a beginning. We’ll have just as good a visit.”

David laughed. He could not help it. “A good visit,” said he to himself. Aloud he said something about its being too much trouble for Miss Bethia.

“Trouble for a friend is the best kind of pleasure,” said she. “And don’t you worry. Your mother’s clothes will bear to be looked at. Patches ain’t a sin these days, but the contrary. Step a little spryer, can’t you! We can visit all the same.”

It was Miss Bethia’s way to take the reins in her own hand wherever she was, and David could not have prevented her if he had tried, which he did not. He could only do as he was bidden. In a much shorter time than Debby would have taken, David thought, all preliminary arrangements were made, and Miss Bethia was busy at work. Little Mary stood on a stool at the end of the table, and gravely imitated her movements with a little iron of her own.

“Now this is what I call a kind of pleasant,” said Miss Bethia. “Now let’s have a good visit before the children come home.”

“Shall I read to you?” said David, a little at a loss as to what might be expected from him in the way of entertainment.

“Well—no. I can read to myself at home, and I would rather talk if you had just as lief.”

And she did talk on every imaginable subject, with very little pause, till she came round at last to old Mr Bent’s death.

“I’d have given considerable to have gone to the funeral,” said she. “I’ve known Timothy Bent for over forty years, and I’d have liked to see the last of him. I thought of coming up to ask your papa if he wouldn’t take me over when he went, but I thought perhaps your mamma would want to go. Did she?”

No, David said; he had driven his father over.

“Your papa preached, did he?” and then followed a great many questions about the funeral, and the mourners, and the bearers, and then about the text and the sermon. And then she added a hope that he “realised” the value of the privileges he enjoyed above others in having so many opportunities to hear his father preach. And when she said this, David knew that she was going to give him the “serious talking to” which she always felt it her duty to give faithfully to the young people of the families where she visited.

They always expected it. Davie and Jem used to compare notes about these “talks,” and used to boast to one another about the methods they took to prevent, or interrupt, or answer them, as the case might be. But when Miss Bethia spoke about Mr Bent and the funeral, it brought back the sermon and what his father had said to him on his way home, and all the troubled thoughts that had come to him afterwards. So instead of shrugging his shoulders, and making believe very busy with something else, as he had often done under Miss Bethia’s threatening lectures, he sat looking out of the window with so grave a face, that she in her turn, made a little pause, of surprise, and watched him as she went on with her work.

“Yes,” she went on in a little, “it is a great privilege you have, and that was a solemn occasion, a very solemn occasion—but you did not tell me the text.”

David told her the text and a good part of the sermon, too. He told it so well, and grew so interested and animated as he went on, that in a little Miss Bethia set down the flat-iron, and seated herself to listen. Jem came in before he was through.

“Well! well! I feel just as if I had been to meeting,” said Miss Bethia.

“Well done, Davie!” said Jem. “Isn’t our Davie a smart boy, Aunt Bethia? I wish Frank could have heard that.”

“Yes, so I told papa,” said David, gravely.

“It is a great responsibility to have such privileges as you have, boys—” began Miss Bethia.

“As Davie has, you mean, Miss Bethia,” said Jem. “He goes with papa almost always—”

“And as you have, too. Take care that you don’t neglect them, so that they may not rise up in judgment against you some day—”

But Miss Bethia was obliged to interrupt herself to shake hands with Violet, who came in with her little brother and sister. Jem laughed at the blank look in his sister’s face.

“Miss Bethia has commenced your ironing for you,” said he.

“Yes—I see. You shouldn’t have troubled yourself about it, Miss Bethia.”

“I guess I know pretty well by this time what I should do, and what I should let alone,” said Miss Bethia, sharply, not pleased with the look on Violet’s face, or the heartiness of her greeting. “It was your mother I was thinking of. I expect the heft of Debby’s work will fall on her.”

“Debby will be back to-morrow or next day, I hope,” said Violet. “But it was very kind of you to do it, Miss Bethia, and I will begin in a minute.”

“You had better go to work and get supper ready, and get that out of the way; and by that time the starched clothes will be done, and you can do the rest. I expect the children want their supper by this time,” said Miss Bethia.

“Yes, I dare say it would be better.”

Violet was very good-tempered, and did not feel inclined to resent Miss Bethia’s tone of command. And besides, she knew it would do no good to resent it, so she went away to put aside her books, and her out-of-door’s dress, and Miss Bethia turned her attention to the boys again.

“Yes, that was a solemn sermon, boys, and, David, I am glad to see that you must have paid good attention to remember it so well. I hope it may do you good, and all who heard it.”

“Our Davie won’t make a bad preacher himself, will he, Miss Bethia?” said Jem. “He has about made up his mind to it now.”

“His making up his mind don’t amount to much, one way or the other,” said Miss Bethia. “Boys’ minds are soon made up, but they ain’t apt to stay made up—not to anything but foolishness. That’s my belief, and I’ve seen a good many boys at one time and another.”

“But that’s not the way with our Davie,” said Jem. “You wouldn’t find many boys that would remember a sermon so well, and repeat it so well as he does. Now would you, Aunt Bethia?”

“Nonsense, Jem, that’s enough,” said Davie. “He’s chaffing, Aunt Bethia.”

“He’s entirely welcome,” said Miss Bethia, smiling grimly. “Though I don’t see anything funny in the idea of David’s being a minister, or you either, for that matter.”

“Funny! No. Anything but funny! A very serious matter that would be,” said Jem. “We couldn’t afford to have so many ministers in the family, Miss Bethia. I am not going to be a minister. I am going to make a lot of money and be a rich man, and then I’ll buy a house for papa, and send Davie’s boys to college.”

They all laughed.

“You may laugh, but you’ll see,” said Jem. “I am not going to be a minister. Hard work and poor pay. I have seen too much of that, Miss Bethia.”

He was “chaffing” her. Miss Bethia knew it quite well, and though she had said he was entirely welcome, it made her angry because she could not see the joke, and because she thought it was not respectful nor polite on Jem’s part to joke with her, as indeed it was not. And besides this was a sore subject with Miss Bethia—the poverty of ministers. She had at one time or another spent a great many of her valuable words on those who were supposed to be influential in the guidance of parish affairs, with a design to prove that their affairs were not managed as they ought to be. There was no reason in the world, but shiftlessness and sinful indifference, to prevent all being made and kept straight between the minister and people as regarded salary and support, she declared, and it was a shame that a man like their minister should find himself pressed or hampered, in providing the comforts—sometimes the necessaries of life—for his family.

That was putting it strong, the authorities thought and said, but Miss Bethia never would allow that it was too strong, and she never tired of putting it.

“The labourer is worthy of his hire.”

“They that serve the temple must live by the temple.” And with a house to keep up and his children to clothe and feed, no wonder that Mr Inglis might be troubled many a time when he thought of how they were to be educated, and of what was to become of them in case he should be taken away.

There was no theme on which Miss Bethia was so eloquent as this, and she was eloquent on most themes. She never tired of this one, and answered all excuses and expostulations with a force and sharpness that, as a general thing, silenced, if they did not convince. Whether she helped her cause by this assertion of its claims, is a question. She took great credit for her faithfulness in the matter, at any rate, and as she had not in the past, so she had made up her mind that she should not in the future be found wanting in this respect.

But it was one thing to tell her neighbours their duty with regard to their minister, and it was quite another thing to listen to a lad like Jem making disparaging remarks as to a minister’s possessions and prospects. “Hard work and poor pay,” said Jem, and she felt very much like resenting his words, as a reflection on the people of whom she was one. Jem needed putting down.

“Your pa wouldn’t say so. He ain’t one to wish to serve two masters. He ain’t a mammon worshipper,” said Miss Bethia, solemnly.

“No!” said Jem, opening his eyes very wide. “And I don’t intend to be one either. I intend to make a good living, and perhaps become a rich man.”

“Don’t, Jem,” said Violet, softly. She meant “Don’t vex Miss Bethia,” as Jem very well knew, but he only laughed and said:

“Don’t do what? Become a rich man? or a worshipper of mammon? Don’t be silly, Letty.”

“Jem’s going to be a blacksmith,” said Edward. “You needn’t laugh. He put a shoe on Mr Strong’s old Jerry the other day. I saw him do it.”

“Pooh,” said Jem. “That’s nothing. Anybody could do that. I am going to make a steam-engine some day.”

“You’re a smart boy, if we are to believe you,” said Miss Bethia. “Did Mr Strong know that the blacksmith let you meddle with his horse’s shoes? I should like to have seen his face when he heard it.”

“One must begin with somebody’s horse, you know. And Peter Munro said he couldn’t have done it better himself,” said Jem, triumphantly.

“Peter Munro knows about horseshoes, and that’s about all he does know. He ought to know that you might be about better business than hanging about his shop, learning no good.”

“Horseshoes no good!” said Jem, laughing.

“Jem, dear!” pleaded Violet.

“But it’s dreadful to hear Miss Bethia speak disrespectfully of horseshoes,” said Jem.

“I think there’s something more to be expected from your father’s son than horseshoes,” said Miss Bethia.

“But horseshoes may do for a beginning,” said David. “And by and by, perhaps, it may be engines, and railways; who knows?”

“And good horseshoes are better than bad sermons, and they pay better than good ones,” said Jem. “And I’m bound to be a rich man. You’ll see, Miss Bethia.”

Then he went on to tell of the wonderful things that were to happen when he became a rich man. Old Don was to be superannuated, and his father was to have a new horse, and a new fur coat to wear when the weather was cold. His mother and Violet were to have untold splendours in the way of dress, and the children as well. Davie was to go to college, and there should be a new bell to the church, and a new fence to the grave-yard, and Miss Bethia was to have a silk gown of any colour she liked, and a knocker to her front door. There was a great deal of fun and laughter, in which even Miss Bethia joined, and when Violet called them to tea, Jem whispered to David that they had escaped her serious lecture for that time.

After tea, they all went again to the kitchen, which, indeed, was as pleasant as many parlours, and while Violet washed the tea-dishes, Miss Bethia went on with the ironing, and the boys went on with their lessons. Just as they were all beginning to wonder what could be delaying the return home of their father and mother, there came a messenger to say that they had been obliged to go much farther than Mr Spry’s, to see a sick person, and that as they might not be home that night, the children were not to wait for them past their usual time of going to bed.

There were exclamations of disappointment from the younger ones, and little Mary, who was getting sleepy and a little cross, began to cry.

“I had a presentiment that we should not see them to-night,” said David, taking his little sister on his lap to comfort her. “Never mind, Polly. Mamma will be home in the morning, and we must be able to tell her that we have all been good, and that nobody has cried or been cross, but quite the contrary.”

“I wish your mother knew that I had happened along. It would have set her mind at rest about you all,” said Miss Bethia.

The young people were not so sure of that, but there would have been no use in saying so.

“Oh! mamma knows we can get on nicely for one night. But she will be sorry to miss your visit, Miss Bethia,” said Violet.

“She won’t miss it. I shall have a visit with her when she gets home. And now hadn’t you better put the children to bed before you set down?”

But the children, except little Mary, were in the habit of putting themselves to bed, and were not expected to do so till eight o’clock, as they declared with sufficient decision. So nothing more was said about it. If it had been any other child but little Mary. Miss Bethia would have counselled summary measures with her, and she would have been sent to bed at once. As it was the little lady had her own way for a while, and kept her eyes wide open, while David comforted her for the absence of mamma. He played with her and told her stories, and by and by undressed her gently, kissing her hands and her little bare feet, and murmuring such tender words, that baby grew good and sweet, and forgot that there was any one in the world she loved better than Davie.

As for Miss Bethia, as she watched them she was wondering whether it could be the rough, thoughtless schoolboy, to whom she had so often considered it her duty to administer both instruction and reproof. She was not, as a general thing, very tolerant of boys. She intended to do her duty by the boys of her acquaintance in the matter of rebuke and correction, and in the matter of patience and forbearance as well, and these things covered the whole ground, as far as her relations with boys were concerned. And so when she saw David kissing his little sister’s hands and feet, and heard him softly prompting her in her “good words” as the eyelids fell over the sleepy little eyes, she experienced quite a new sensation. She looked upon a boy with entire approval. He had pleased her in the afternoon, when he had told her so much about his father’s sermon. But she had hardly been conscious of her pleasure then, because of the earnestness of her desire to impress him and his brother with a sense of their responsibility as to the use they made of their privileges and opportunities. It came back to her mind, however, as she sat watching him and his little sister, and she acknowledged to herself that she was pleased, and that David was not a common boy. David would never have guessed her thoughts by the first words she spoke.

“Put her to bed,” said she. “She’ll take cold.”

“Yes, I will,” said David, but he did not move to do it. “Miss Bethia,” said he in a little, “if wee Polly were to die to-night and go to Heaven, do you suppose she would always stay a little child as she is now?”

Miss Bethia set down her flat-irons and looked at him in surprise.

“What on earth put that into your head?” said she, hastily.

“Look at her,” said David. “It doesn’t seem as though she could be any sweeter even in Heaven, does it?”

Violet came and knelt down beside her brother.

“Is she not a precious darling?” said she, kissing her softly.

“It isn’t much we know about how folks will look in heaven,” said Miss Bethia, gravely.

“No,” said David. “Only that we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.”

“If we ever get there,” said Miss Bethia.

“Yes, if we ever get there,” said David. “But if our little Polly were to die to-night, she would be sure to get there, and what I would like to know is, whether she would always be little Polly there, so that when the rest of us get there, too, we should know her at once without being told.”

“She would have a new name given her,” said Violet.

“Yes, and a crown and a harp, and a white robe, and wings, perhaps. But she might have all that and be our little Polly still. I wonder how it will be. What do you think, Miss Bethia?”

“I haven’t thought about it. I don’t seem to remember that there is anything said about it in the Bible. And there is no other way of knowing anything about it—as I see.”

“No. Still one cannot but think of these things. Don’t you remember, Violet?

“Not as child shall we again behold her,But when with rapture wild.In our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child.”

“Not as child shall we again behold her,But when with rapture wild.In our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child.”

“Yes.” Violet remembered the words, and added:

“But a fair maiden in our Father’s mansion.”

“But a fair maiden in our Father’s mansion.”

“I don’t like to think that may be the way.”

“But that ain’t in the Bible,” said Miss Bethia.

“No,” said David. “And I like best the idea of there being little children there. Of course there are children now, because they are going there every day. But if they grow up there—afterwards, when the end comes, there will be no little children.”

“How you talk!” said Aunt Bethia. “I don’t more than half believe that it’s right for you to follow out such notions. If the Bible don’t say any thing about it, it is a sign it’s something we needn’t worry about, for we don’t need to know it.”

“No, we don’t need to worry about it,” said David. “But one cannot help having such thoughts in their minds sometimes.”

There was nothing more said for some time. Violet still knelt by her brother’s side, and the eyes of both were resting on the baby’s lovely face. It was Miss Bethia who spoke first.

“I was a twin. My sister died when she was three years old. I remember how she looked as well as I remember my mother’s face, and she didn’t die till I was over forty. I should know her in a minute if I were to see her. It would seem queer to see us together—twins so—wouldn’t it?—she a child and me an old woman,” said Miss Bethia, with something like a sob in her voice. “It will be all in her favour—the difference, I mean.”

“‘Whom the gods love die young,’” said David. “But that is a Pagan sentiment. Papa said, the other day, that victory must mean more to the man who has gone through the war, than to him who has hardly had time to strike a blow. Even before the victory it must be grand, he said, to be able to say like Paul, ‘I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.’ And, perhaps, Miss Bethia, your crown may be brighter than your little sister’s, after all.”

“It will owe none of its brightness to me,” said Miss Bethia, with sudden humility. “And I don’t suppose I shall begrudge the brightness of other folks’ crowns when I get there, if I ever do.”

In the pause that followed, David went and laid the baby in her cot, and when he returned the children came with him, and the talk went on. They all had something to say about what they should see and do, and the people they should meet with when they got there. But it would not bear repeating, all that they said, and they fell in a little while into talk of other things, and Jem, as his way was, made the little ones laugh at his funny sayings, and even Violet smiled sometimes. But David was very grave and quiet, and Miss Bethia, for a good while, did not seem to hear a word, or to notice what was going on.

But by and by something was said about the lessons of the next day, and she roused herself up enough to drop her accustomed words about “privileges and responsibilities,” and then went on to tell how different every thing had been in her young days, and before she knew it she was giving them her own history. There was not much to tell. That is, there had been few incidents in her life, but a great deal of hard work, many trials and disappointments—and many blessings as well.

“And,” said Aunt Bethia, “if I were to undertake, I couldn’t always tell you which was which. For sometimes the things I wished most for, and worked hardest to get, didn’t amount to but very little when I got them. And the things I was most afraid of went clear out of sight, or turned right round into blessings, as soon as I came near enough to touch them. And I tell you, children, there is nothing in the world that it’s worth while being afraid of but sin. You can’t be too much afraid of that. It is a solemn thing to live in the world, especially such times as these. But there’s no good talking. Each one must learn for himself; and it seems as though folks would need to live one life, just to teach them how to live. I don’t suppose there’s any thing I could say to you that would make much difference. Talk don’t seem to amount to much, any way.”

“I am sure you must have seen a great deal in your life, Miss Bethia, and might tell us a great many things to do us good,” said Violet, but she did not speak very enthusiastically, for she was not very fond of Miss Bethia’s good advice any more than her brothers; and little Jessie got them happily out of the difficulty, by asking:

“What did you use to do when you were a little girl, Aunt Bethia?”

“Pretty much what other little girls did. We lived down in New Hampshire, then, and what ever made father come away up here for, is more than I can tell. I had a hard time after we came up here. I helped father and the boys to clear up our farm. I used to burn brush, and make sugar, and plant potatoes and corn, and spin and knit. I kept school twenty-one seasons, off and on. I didn’t know much, but a little went a great way in those days. I used to teach six days in the week, and make out a full week’s spinning or weaving, as well. I was strong and smart then, and ambitious to make a living and more. After a while, my brothers moved out West, and I had to stay at home with father and mother, and pretty soon mother died. I have been on the old place ever since. It is ten years since father died. I’ve stayed there alone most of the time since, and I suppose I shall till my time comes. And children, I’ve found out that life don’t amount to much, except as it is spent as a time of preparation—and for the chance it gives you to do good to your neighbours; and it ain’t a great while since I knew that, only as I heard folks say it. It ain’t much I’ve done of it.”

There was nothing said for a minute or two, and then Ned made them all laugh by asking, gravely:

“Miss Bethia, are you very rich?”

Miss Bethia laughed, too.

“Why, yes; I suppose I may say I am rich. I’ve got all I shall ever want to spend, and more, too. I’ve got all I want, and that’s more than most folks who are called rich can say. And I have earned all I’ve got. But it ain’t what one has got, so much as what one has done, that makes life pleasant to look back upon.”

“It is pleasant to have plenty of money, too, however,” said Jem.

“And people can do good with their money,” said Violet.

“Yes, that is true; but money don’t stand for everything, even to do good with. Money won’t stand instead of a life spent in God’s service. Money, even to do good with, is a poor thing compared with that. Money won’t go a great ways in the making of happiness, without something else.”

“Would you like to live your life over again, Miss Bethia?” asked Violet.

“No—I shouldn’t. Not unless I could live it a great deal better. And I know myself too well by this time to suppose I should do that. It wouldn’t pay, I don’t believe. But oh! children, it is a grand thing to be young, to have your whole life before you to give to the Lord. You can’t begin too young. Boys, and you, too, Violet—you have great privileges and responsibilities.”

This was Miss Bethia’s favourite way of putting their duty before them. She had said this about “privilege and responsibility” two or three times to-night already, as the boys knew she would. It had come to be a by-word among them. But even Jem did not smile this time, she was so much in earnest, and Violet and David looked very grave.

“‘Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life.’ That’s what you’ve got to do. ‘Take the whole armour of God,’ and fight His battles.”

The boys looked at each other, remembering all that had been said about this of late.

“Your father said right. It is a grand thing to come to the end of life and be able to say, ‘I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.’”

“Like Mr Great Heart in the Pilgrim’s Progress,” said Ned.

“Yes. Sometimes it’s lions, and sometimes it’s giants, but it’s fighting all the way through, and God gives the victory. Yes,” continued Miss Bethia, after a pause, “it’s fighting all the way through, and it don’t so much matter how it looks to other folks. Horseshoes or sermons, it don’t matter, so that it is done to the Lord. Your father, he is a standard-bearer; and your mother, she helps the Lord’s cause by helping him, and so she fights the good fight, too. There’s enough for all to do, and the sooner you begin, the more you can do, and the better it will be—And I’m sure it’s time these children were in bed now.”

Yes, it was more than time, as all acknowledged, but they did not go very willingly for all that.

“Obedience is the first duty of a soldier, Ned, boy,” said Jem.

“If we could only know that we were soldiers,” said David, gravely; and then he added to himself, “The very first thing is to enrol one’s name.”

“I wonder all the girls don’t like Aunt Bethia more,” said Jessie, when Violet came up to take her candle in a little. “I’m sure she’s nice—sometimes.”

“Yes, she is always very good, and to-night she is pleasant,” said Violet. “And I’m not at all sorry that she came, though mamma is away. Good-night, dear, and pleasant dreams.”

Upon the whole, Miss Bethia’s visit was a success. Mr and Mrs Inglis came home next day to find her and little Mary in possession of the house. David was waiting to receive them at the gate, and all the others had gone to school. Violet had proposed to stay at home to entertain their guest, but this Miss Bethia would not hear of. The baby and she were quite equal to the entertainment of one another, to say nothing of David, upon whom Miss Bethia was evidently beginning to look with eyes of favour. They had not got tired of one another when mamma came to the rescue, and nothing mattered much either to David or his little sister when mamma was at hand.

Mr Inglis was almost ill with a cold; too ill to care to go to his study and his books that day, but not too ill to lie on the sofa and talk with—or rather listen to, Miss Bethia. This was a great pleasure to her, for she had a deep respect for the minister, and indeed, the respect was mutual. So they discussed parish matters a little; and all the wonderful things that were happening in the world, they discussed a good deal. There was a new book, too, which Miss Bethia had got—a very interesting book to read, but of whose orthodoxy she could not be quite sure till she had discussed it with the minister. There were new thoughts in it, and old thoughts clothed in unfamiliar language, and she wanted his help in Comparing it with the only standard of truth in the opinion of both.

So the first day was successful, and so were all the other days of her visit, though in a different way. There were no signs of Debby’s return, but Mrs Inglis had, in the course of her married life, been too often left to her own resources to make this a matter of much consequence for a few days. The house was as orderly, and the meals were as regular; and though some things in the usual routine were left undone because of Debby’s absence and Miss Bethia’s presence in the house, still everything went smoothly, and all the more so that Miss Bethia, who had had a varied experience in the way of long visits, knew just when to sit still and seem to see nothing, and when to put forth a helping hand. Her visits, as a general thing, were not without some drawbacks, and if Mrs Inglis had had her choice, she would have preferred that this one should have taken place when Debby’s presence in the kitchen would have left her free to attend to her guest. But this was a visit altogether pleasant. There was not even the little jarring and uncomfortableness, rather apt to arise out of her interest in the children, and her efforts in their behalf. Not that she neglected them or their affairs. David, of whom she saw most, had a feeling that her eye was upon him whenever he was in the house, but her observation was more silent than usual, and even when she took him to task, as she did more than once, he did not for some reason or other, feel inclined to resent her sharp little speeches as he had sometimes done. She did not overlook him by any means, but asked a great many questions about his books, and lessons, and amusements, and about when he was going to college, and about what he was to be afterwards, and behind his back praised him to his mother as a sensible, well-behaved boy, which, of course, pleased his mother, and made David himself laugh heartily when he heard of it.

Still, though her visit had been most agreeable, it was pleasant to be alone again, when it came to an end, and little Jessie expressed what the others only thought when she said:

“It’s nice to have Miss Bethia come once in a while, and it’s nice to have her go away, too.”

Debby did not come back, but everything went on as nearly as possible as usual in her absence. They hoped to have her again, by and by, so no effort was made to supply her place. If she could not come back, Violet would possibly have to stay at home after the Christmas holidays to help in the house, and in the meantime, David did what “a sensible, well-behaved boy” might be expected to do, to supply her place. And that was a great deal. David was a manly boy, and he was none the less manly that he did a great many things for his mother, that boys are not generally supposed to like to do. What those things were, need not be told, lest boys not so sensible, should call his manliness in question, and so lose their interest in him.

Indeed, it must be confessed that, sensible boy as he was, David himself had some doubts as to the manliness of some of the work that fell to him to do about this time, and did not care that his morning’s occupations should be alluded to often, before Jem and Ned. But he had no doubt as to the help and comfort he was to his mother during these days, when she needed both even more than he knew. It is a manly thing in a boy to be his mother’s “right hand,” and David was that, and more than that, during these happy days, when they were so much alone together.

For they were happy days to them all. In spite of work and weariness, and anxiety, and a sudden sharp dread of something else harder to bear than these, that came now and then to one at least of the household, they were very happy days to them all.

Chapter Five.Winter came early this year. Even before November was out, the sleigh-bells were merrily ringing through all the country, and during December more snow fell than had fallen during that month at any time within the memory of “the oldest inhabitant.” And after the snow came the wind, tossing it hither and thither, and piling up mountainous drifts in the hollows through which the North Gore road passed, before it crossed Hardscrabble hill. It piled it up on Hardscrabble, too, and on all the hills, so that even if Mr Inglis had been quite well, he could hardly have made it the busiest season of the year in the way of visiting his parishioners, as it was his custom to do.For usually, at this time, the farmers may enjoy something besides work, the busy season being over; and usually, too, the new farms and back settlements are easy of access, when the ground is frozen and just enough of snow has fallen to cover the roughness of the way. But this year, too much snow had fallen, so that for weeks, there were in some places, no roads at all; and over others, what with the drifts, and what with the difficulty in the sleighs passing one another where the roads were narrow, it would not have been pleasant, or even safe, to go. Mr Inglis would have tried it, doubtless, if he had been quite well, but the cold he had taken on the stormy night when old Mr Bent died, had never quite left him. He did not call himself ill, though his nights were restless, and his days languid, and if the weather had been fine, he would have gone out as usual; but the snow that had fallen, and was still falling, and the wind that roared and whistled, as it piled it up in the hollows and on the hill-sides, helped to make him content to stay at home and rest.It was rest he needed. He was not ill—only tired, so tired that he did not care during this time of leisure, to pursue the studies that he loved so well, and, for the most part, David read to him. These were happy days to David. Generally in the quiet afternoons, when the children were at school, they were down-stairs in mamma’s room, and mamma listened to the reading, too, with little Mary playing out and in of the room beside them. But on the long evenings they usually sat up-stairs in the study, with mamma coming up to see them only now and then. Sometimes there was no reading, and David went on with his lessons as usual, while his father lay on the sofa with closed eyes, thinking over the wonderful truths he wished to speak to the people when the Sabbath came round again.Sometimes when the children, and even the mother, weary with the day’s cares and labours, had gone to rest, David sat with his father far into the night. A prey to the restless wakefulness which, for the time, seems worse to bear than positive illness, Mr Inglis dreaded his bed, and David was only too glad to be allowed to sit with him. Sometimes he read to him, but oftener they talked, and David heard a great many things about his father’s life, that he never would have heard but for this time. His father told him about his early home, and his brothers and sisters, and their youthful joys and sorrows—how dearly they had loved one another, and how he had mourned their loss. He told him about his mamma in her girlhood, as she was when he first knew her, how they had loved one another, and how she had blessed all his life till now, and nothing that his father told him filled David’s heart with such wonder and pleasure, as did this. And when he added, one night, that to him—her first-born son—his mother must always trust, as her strength and “right hand,” he could only find voice to say “Of course, papa,” for the joyful throbbing of his heart. David used to tell Violet and Jem some things that his father spoke about, at such times, but this he never told. He mused over it often in the dark, with smiles and happy tears upon his face, and told himself that his mother’s strength and “right hand,” he would ever be, but it never came into his mind that the time might be drawing near which was to give significance to his father’s words.And so the last weeks of the year passed slowly away. Mr Inglis preached on Sunday as usual, every Sunday at the village, and every alternate Sunday at the Mills and at North Gore. He was quite able to do it, he thought, and though he had restless nights and languid days still, he called himself much better at the beginning of the year, and everything went on as usual in the house. In the village there began to be whispers that it was time for the annual “Donation Visit” to the minister’s family, and certain worthy and wise people, upon whom much of the prosperity of the town was supposed to depend, laid their heads together to consult as to how this visit might be made successful in every respect—a visit to be remembered beyond all other visits, for the pleasure and profit it was to bring. But before this—before the old year had come to an end, something else had happened—something that was considered a great event in the Inglis family. They had had several letters from Frank Oswald since his going home, but one day there came a parcel as well, and this, when opened, was found to contain a good many things which were to be accepted by the young Inglises as Christmas gifts. These were very nice, and very satisfactory, as a general thing, but they need not be specified. That which gave more satisfaction to each than all the other things put together, was marked, “With Frank’s love to Aunt Mary.” And if he had searched through all the city for a gift, he could have found nothing that would have pleased her half so well. For added to her pleasure in receiving was the better pleasure of giving. The present was what she had been wishing for two or three winters past—a fur coat for her husband. It was not a very handsome coat. That is, it was not one of those costly garments, which sometimes rich men purchase and wear, quite as much for appearance as for comfort. It was the best of its kind, however; well made and impervious to the cold, if a coat could be made so; and when papa put it on and buttoned it round him, there were many exclamations of admiration and delight.“We need not be afraid of Hardscrabble winds any more, papa,” said David.“I should think not. ‘Blow winds and crack your cheeks,’” said Jem, laughing.Little Mary was more than half inclined to be afraid of her papa in his unaccustomed garb, but Ned laughed at her, and made her look at Violet, who was passing her hand over the soft fur, caressing it as if she loved it; and Jessie made them all laugh by telling them that when she became a rich woman, she meant to send a fur coat to all the ministers.It is possible that some young people, and even some people not young, may smile, and be a little contemptuous over the idea of so much interest and delight in so small a matter. It can only be said of them, that there are some things happening every day in the world, that such people don’t know of, and cannot be supposed to understand. That a good woman should have to plan and wait one season, and then another, for the garment much desired—absolutely necessary for the health and comfort of her husband, need not surprise any one. It has happened to other than ministers’ wives many a time, I suppose. I know it has happened to some ofthem. It happened once, certainly, in the experience of Mrs Inglis, and her delight in Frank’s present was as real, though not so freely expressed, as was that of her children. It came with less of drawback than usually comes with the receiving of such a present. It came from one whom they believed quite able to give it, and from one whom they knew to be speaking the thought of his heart, when he said that the pleasure of his son Frank—whose present he wished it to be considered—was greater in giving it than theirs could possibly be in receiving it. Then there were thanks for their kindness to his boy, and hopes expressed that the two families would come to know more of each other in the future than had seemed possible in the past, and, altogether, it was a nice letter to send and to receive in the circumstances.But few pleasures are quite unmixed in this world. Even while Mrs Inglis was rejoicing over her husband’s future comfort, and the removal of her own anxiety with regard to it, she could not but say to herself, as she watched his flushed face and languid movements, “If it had only come a little sooner!” But she did not spoil the enjoyment of the rest by uttering her thoughts. Indeed, she was displeased with herself, calling herself unthankful and unduly anxious, and sought with earnestness to put them out of her mind.There was something else in the letter sent by Mr Oswald, which, for the present, the father and mother did not think it necessary to discuss with the children. This was the offer made to them for David, of the situation as junior clerk in the bank of which Mr Oswald was managing director. There was no immediate necessity of deciding about the matter, as the place would not be vacant till spring, and the father and mother determined to take time to look at the matter in all its lights, before they said anything about it to David. He was already nearly fitted to enter the university, and they hoped that some time or other, means would be found to send him there; but he was too young to enter at once, and, also, he was too young and boyish-looking, to hope for a long time yet to be able to earn means to help himself, as so many students are able to do, by teaching in the public schools. So it seemed likely that this situation might be the very thing they could wish for him for the next few years. However, there were many things to be considered with regard to it. It might unsettle him from his eager pursuit of his studies, and from the cheerful doing of his other duties, were anything to be said about his leaving home just now. So they were silent, and the old year went out, and the new year came in, and everything went on as usual, till the time for the donation visit drew near.Donation visits ought to be pleasant occasions to all concerned, for we have the very highest authority as to the blessedness of giving, and only mean and churlish natures will refuse to accept graciously what is graciously bestowed. That they often fail to be so, arises less frequently from the lack of “graciousness” on the part of either pastor or people, than from the fact that the principle on which they are often undertaken is a mistaken one—the design to thus supplement some acknowledged deficiency in the matter of the minister’s salary. It often happens that the people regard as a gift, what their pastor and his family accept as their right, and thus both parties are defrauded of the mutual benefits which are the result of obligations cheerfully conferred and gratefully received.The parish of Gourlay was very much like other parishes, in regard to these matters. They were not a rich people. The salary of their minister was moderately liberal, considering their means, but it was scant enough considering the requirements of the minister’s family. It was not very regularly, nor very promptly paid; still, in one form or other, the stipulated amount generally found its way to the minister’s house in the course of the year. So that the donation visit was not made for the purpose of making up a deficiency in the salary agreed on, but rather as an acknowledgment on the part of some of the people that the salary agreed upon was not sufficient, and as a token of good-will on the part of all.If it had occurred to the people to put their expression of good-will in the form of increased salary, it would doubtless have been more agreeable to Mr Inglis. Still, he knew that more could be done on an occasion of this kind, with less inconvenience to that part of the people who were most liberal, than could be done in the legitimate way of annual subscriptions, and he had, on the whole, sufficient confidence in their kindly feeling to prevent any very painful sense of obligation in receiving their gifts, and no expression of any such feeling was ever permitted to mar the enjoyment of the occasion, as far as the people were concerned. In short, the minister and his wife had come to consider the annual donation visit, as one of those circumstances in life out of which pain or pleasure may be gotten, according as they are made the worst or the best of by those most concerned; and as they had been making the best of them for a good many years now, they were justified in looking forward to a reasonable amount of enjoyment from this one.As for the children, they did not think of anything but enjoyment in connection with it. To them the overturning of all things in the house, up-stairs and down, which was considered a necessary part of the preparations, was great fun. Some overturning was absolutely necessary for the entertainment of about a third more people than the house could conveniently hold. So there was the putting aside all brittle articles, the shoving of tables and bureaus into corners, the taking down of beds, and the arranging of seats over all the house. For all the house must be thrown open, and the result was confusion, certainly not so delightful to the mother as to the children. The prospect of the crowd was delightful to them, too, and so were the possibilities in the way of presents. Besides the staples, butter, cheese, flannel, oats, and Indian meal, there was a possibility of something particular and personal to every one of them—chickens, or mittens, or even a book. Once Jem had got a jack-knife, and David a year of “The Youth’s Companion.” Last year Violet had got a new dress from Mrs Smith, and Jem a pair of boots. Very good boots they had been—they were not bad yet, but the thought of them was not altogether agreeable to Jem. However nice the boots, the being reminded of the gift by Master Smith, and that before all the boys at school, and more than once, was not at all nice; and Jem had to look back with mingled shame and triumph on a slight passage of arms that had been intended to put an end to that sort of thing on Master Smith’s part. There was no danger, he thought, of getting any more boots from Mrs Smith, and all the people were not like her and her son.Out of this trouble about the boots had arisen in Jem’s mind some serious misgivings as to the entire desirableness of donation visits. David and Violet had had them before, but they were not so ready to speak of these things as Jem was; or rather as Jem would have been if his conscience had been quite clear as regarded the matter of Master Smith.“There would be no good in troubling mamma with it,” said Jem, and so there had been no exciting of one another by foolish talking; and, indeed, their misgivings had neither been of a depth nor of a nature to spoil the prospect of the visit to them. Great fun was anticipated as usual. Debby, though her sister was by no means well yet, came back to assist in the general confusion.“There shall be no talk of ‘allowances’ this time,” said Debby; and cellar and garret, pantry, cupboard, and closet, were all put through such a process of purifying and arranging, that not the neatest house-keeper in Gourlay could have the least chance or excuse for hinting that any “allowances” were needed. Debby’s honour as a house-keeper was at stake, to say nothing of the honour of Mrs Inglis.“It seems as natural as possible to get back to the old spot,” said Debby; “and I wish to goodness sister Serepta would get well, or do something else. I mean, I wish she would go and stay to Uncle Jason’s, or have Aunt Myra come and stay with her. I’m thankful your ma’s got along so far, without any of those shiftless Simmses or Martins in to help her. But she’s looking a kind of used up, ain’t she? And it beats all how your pa’s cold hangs on, don’t it?”“Oh! papa is much better,” said David, eagerly, “and mamma is quite well. She is tired, but now you are here, she just lets things go, and rests. She knows it will be all right.”“That’s so,” said Debby, “and she can’t do better.”And, indeed, she could not. Her affairs were in good hands. Debby was “as smart as a trap,” and capable of anything in the way of house-keeping duties. And though not blessed with the mildest temper—people “as smart as traps” seldom are—she had the faculty of adapting herself to circumstances, and of identifying herself with the family in which she lived, in a way that stood in stead of a good deal. She was quite too smart for the patient endurance of the whims of a nervous invalid, and found positive refreshment in the present bustle and hurry, and was inclined not only to be agreeable, but confidential on the occasion.“It’s to be hoped it will amount to something this time,” said she. “All this fuss and worry ought not to go for nothing, that’s a fact. It would suit better all round, if they’d pay your pa at first, and have done with it. I don’t believe in presents myself—not till folks’ debts are paid at any rate,” said Debby, looking at the subject from the minister’s family’s point of view. “But I ain’t going to begin on that. Miss Bethia—she’s been letting in the light on some folks’ mind, but as this visit has got to be, I only hope we’ll get enough to pay us for our trouble; and I wish it were well over.”The eventful evening came at last. It would be quite impossible to give here a full and clear account of all that was said and done, and given and received that night. It was a very successful visit, whether considered socially, or with reference to the results in the way of donations. Afterwards—a good while afterwards—they all used to think and speak of it as a delightful visit indeed. It was not without its little drawbacks, but on the whole, it was a delightful visit even at the time, and afterwards all drawbacks were forgotten. Jem had a little encounter with Mrs Smith, which he did not enjoy much at the moment, but which did not spoil the remembrance of it to him. She did not seem to resent his conduct about the boots. On the contrary, she placed him under still further obligations to her by presenting him with the “makings” of a jacket, which Jem accepted shamefacedly, but still gratefully enough, quite forgetting the dignified resolution he had confided to David, to decline all further favours from her with thanks.David enjoyed the evening for the same reasons that all the rest enjoyed it, and so did Violet, and for another reason besides. For the very first time, she was spoken to, and treated as if she were a grown-up young lady, and a little girl no longer. This was delightful to Violet, who, though she was nearly sixteen, was small of her age, and had always been one of the children like all the rest. It was old Mrs Kerr, from the Gore Corner, who spoke to her about it first.“A great help you must be to your mother with the house-keeping, and with the children and all,” said that nice old lady. “It’s a fine thing to have a grown-up daughter in the house. Only the chances are you’ll just go and leave her, as mine have done.”Violet smiled, and blushed, and was conscience-stricken, not at the thought of going away to leave her mother one day, as Mrs Kerr’s daughters had done, but because she knew she had never really been much help to her mother either at the sewing or the house-keeping—not half so much as Davie had been since Debby went away. For Letty was very fond of her books, and, indeed, her duty as well as her inclination had encouraged her devotion to them, at least until lately; but she was inclined to confess her faults to the old lady, lest she should think of her what was not true.“Never mind. It will come in good time. And there’s small blame to you for liking the books best, since you’re your father’s child, as well as your mother’s,” said Mrs Kerr, kindly. “And, indeed, they say folk can make hard work at the books, as well as at other things, and there’s no fear of you, with your mother to teach you the other things, and you growing so womanly and big withal.”It was a very successful visit in every way. There never had been so many people present on such an occasion before; there never had been so many nice things brought and eaten. The coffee was good, and so was the tea, and the singing. The young people had a good time together, and so had the old people. The donations were of greater value than usual, and when he presented the money part of it to Mr Inglis, Mr Spry made a speech, which would have been very good “if he had known when he had done, and stopped,” Debby said, and the rest thought it was not bad as it was. And the minister certainly made a good speech when he received it.He did not use many words in thanking the people for their gifts, but they were just the right words, and “touched the spot,” Debby said to Miss Bethia, who agreed. And then he went on to say what proved to these two, and to them all, that there was something for which he cared more than he cared for what they had to give. And they all remembered afterwards, though no one missed them at the time, that the few playful words that he was wont to address to the young men and maidens of the congregation on such occasions, were not spoken, but the words he did speak to them were such as some of them will never forget while they live.It was all over at last, and the tired household was left to rest, and they awoke to a comfortless house next day. The boys helped to take out the boards and benches that had been used as seats, and to move back to their places the furniture that had been removed, and then the children went to school. Violet offered to stay at home and help to arrange the house, but Debby declared herself equal to the clearing up, and was not complimentary in her remarks as to her skill and ability in such matters, so Letty, nothing loth, went away with the rest. It was an uncomfortable day. Mr Inglis had taken more cold, at least his cough was worse, and he stayed up-stairs in his study, and David was glad when the time came that he could stay there too. However, there came order out of the confusion at last. It was a good job well over, Debby declared, and all agreed with her.“I hate to go as bad as you hate to have me,” said she, in answer to Letty’s lamentations over her departure. “I don’t know but your mother had better have one of those shiftless Simmses than nobody at all. There’s considerable many steps to be taken in this house, as nobody knows better than me; and I hadn’t the responsibility of mother’s meetings, and worrying over your pa, as she has. If I were you, I’d take right hold and help, and never mind about going to school, and examination, and such, for your ma’s got more than she ought to do. I must try and doctor Serepta up, so as to get back again, or there’ll be something to pay. Well, good-bye! I’ll be down next week, if I can fix it so, to see how you’re getting along.”Letty stood looking after her disconsolately. To stay at home from school, and give up all thoughts of prizes at the coming examination, were among the last things she would like to do, to say nothing of the distasteful housework. Still, if her mother needed her, she ought to do it, and she made up her mind to do it cheerfully if it must be. But she did not need to do it. It was of more importance that she should get on with her studies, so as to be ready to do her duty as a teacher by and by, than that she should help at home just now, her mother thought, and so for a few weeks longer, everything went on as before.David helped his mother still, doing with skill and success a great many things which at first he had not liked to do at all. He did not get on with his studies as he would have wished, partly because he had less time than usual, and partly because his father was less able to interest himself in what he was doing. David sometimes grumbled a little to Jem about it, because he feared he should not find himself so far before Ned Hunter at the end of the year, as he wished to be; and once he said something of the kind to his mother. But that was a very small matter, in her opinion.“For after all, Davie, my boy, the Greek, and Latin, and mathematics you are so eager for, are chiefly valuable to you as a means of discipline—as a means of preparing you for the work that is before you in the world. And I am not sure but that the discipline of little cares and uncongenial work that has come upon you this winter, may answer the purpose quite as well. At any rate, the wish to get on with your studies for the sake of excelling Ned Hunter, is not very creditable.”“No, mamma. But still I think it is worth something to be able to keep up with one who has had so much money spent on him, at the best schools, and I here at home all the time. Don’t you think so, mamma?”“Well!—perhaps so. But the advantages are not all on Ned’s side. Your father’s help and interest in all you have been doing, has been worth more to you than any school could have been.”“That’s true, mamma,” said Davie, heartily. “And it is not like having lessons—tasks, I mean—to study with papa. It is pure pleasure. And that is more than Ned can say, I am afraid,” added he, laughing.“And, besides, I don’t think these things would have troubled you much under any circumstances; and, as I said before, the self-denial you have had to exercise, may be better for you than even success in your studies would be.”“Self-denial, mamma! Why, I think we have had a very happy winter, so far!”“Indeed, we have! even with some things that we might have wished different. And, Davie, you must not think you have been losing time. A boy cannot be losing time, who is being a comfort to his father and mother. And self-denial is a better thing to learn even than Greek. If you live long, you will have more use for the one than for the other, I have no doubt.”David laughed, and blushed with pleasure at his mother’s words.“I am glad that you think so—I mean that I have been a comfort. But as for the self-denial, I don’t believe any of the boys have had a better time than I have had this winter. If papa were only well! But he is better now, mamma?”“Yes; I hope so. If it were May instead of January, I should not be afraid.”“Have you been afraid, mamma? Are you afraid?” asked David, startled.“No—not really afraid, only anxious, and, indeed, I am becoming less so every day.”And there seemed less cause. Wrapped in his wonderful coat of fur and driven by David, the minister went here and there among his people, just as usual, and had a great deal of satisfaction in it, and was not more tired at such times than he had often been before. He preached on Sunday always at the village, and generally at his other stations as well, and David might well say these were happy days.Yes, they were happy days, and long to be remembered, because of the sorrowful days that came after them. Not but that the sorrowful days were happy days, too, in one sense; at least, they were days which neither David nor his mother would be willing ever to forget.Young people do not like to hear of sorrowful days, and sometimes think and say, that at least all such should be left out of books. I should say so, too, if they could also be kept out of one’s life, but sorrowful days will not be kept away by trying to forget them. And besides, life itself would not be better by their being left out, for out of such have come, to many a one, the best and most enduring of blessings. It does not need any words of mine to prove that God does not send them in anger to his people, but in love. We have His own word for that, repeated again and again. And if we did but know it, there are many days to which we look forward—which we hail with joyful welcome, of which we have more cause to be afraid, than of the days of trouble that are sent us by God.

Winter came early this year. Even before November was out, the sleigh-bells were merrily ringing through all the country, and during December more snow fell than had fallen during that month at any time within the memory of “the oldest inhabitant.” And after the snow came the wind, tossing it hither and thither, and piling up mountainous drifts in the hollows through which the North Gore road passed, before it crossed Hardscrabble hill. It piled it up on Hardscrabble, too, and on all the hills, so that even if Mr Inglis had been quite well, he could hardly have made it the busiest season of the year in the way of visiting his parishioners, as it was his custom to do.

For usually, at this time, the farmers may enjoy something besides work, the busy season being over; and usually, too, the new farms and back settlements are easy of access, when the ground is frozen and just enough of snow has fallen to cover the roughness of the way. But this year, too much snow had fallen, so that for weeks, there were in some places, no roads at all; and over others, what with the drifts, and what with the difficulty in the sleighs passing one another where the roads were narrow, it would not have been pleasant, or even safe, to go. Mr Inglis would have tried it, doubtless, if he had been quite well, but the cold he had taken on the stormy night when old Mr Bent died, had never quite left him. He did not call himself ill, though his nights were restless, and his days languid, and if the weather had been fine, he would have gone out as usual; but the snow that had fallen, and was still falling, and the wind that roared and whistled, as it piled it up in the hollows and on the hill-sides, helped to make him content to stay at home and rest.

It was rest he needed. He was not ill—only tired, so tired that he did not care during this time of leisure, to pursue the studies that he loved so well, and, for the most part, David read to him. These were happy days to David. Generally in the quiet afternoons, when the children were at school, they were down-stairs in mamma’s room, and mamma listened to the reading, too, with little Mary playing out and in of the room beside them. But on the long evenings they usually sat up-stairs in the study, with mamma coming up to see them only now and then. Sometimes there was no reading, and David went on with his lessons as usual, while his father lay on the sofa with closed eyes, thinking over the wonderful truths he wished to speak to the people when the Sabbath came round again.

Sometimes when the children, and even the mother, weary with the day’s cares and labours, had gone to rest, David sat with his father far into the night. A prey to the restless wakefulness which, for the time, seems worse to bear than positive illness, Mr Inglis dreaded his bed, and David was only too glad to be allowed to sit with him. Sometimes he read to him, but oftener they talked, and David heard a great many things about his father’s life, that he never would have heard but for this time. His father told him about his early home, and his brothers and sisters, and their youthful joys and sorrows—how dearly they had loved one another, and how he had mourned their loss. He told him about his mamma in her girlhood, as she was when he first knew her, how they had loved one another, and how she had blessed all his life till now, and nothing that his father told him filled David’s heart with such wonder and pleasure, as did this. And when he added, one night, that to him—her first-born son—his mother must always trust, as her strength and “right hand,” he could only find voice to say “Of course, papa,” for the joyful throbbing of his heart. David used to tell Violet and Jem some things that his father spoke about, at such times, but this he never told. He mused over it often in the dark, with smiles and happy tears upon his face, and told himself that his mother’s strength and “right hand,” he would ever be, but it never came into his mind that the time might be drawing near which was to give significance to his father’s words.

And so the last weeks of the year passed slowly away. Mr Inglis preached on Sunday as usual, every Sunday at the village, and every alternate Sunday at the Mills and at North Gore. He was quite able to do it, he thought, and though he had restless nights and languid days still, he called himself much better at the beginning of the year, and everything went on as usual in the house. In the village there began to be whispers that it was time for the annual “Donation Visit” to the minister’s family, and certain worthy and wise people, upon whom much of the prosperity of the town was supposed to depend, laid their heads together to consult as to how this visit might be made successful in every respect—a visit to be remembered beyond all other visits, for the pleasure and profit it was to bring. But before this—before the old year had come to an end, something else had happened—something that was considered a great event in the Inglis family. They had had several letters from Frank Oswald since his going home, but one day there came a parcel as well, and this, when opened, was found to contain a good many things which were to be accepted by the young Inglises as Christmas gifts. These were very nice, and very satisfactory, as a general thing, but they need not be specified. That which gave more satisfaction to each than all the other things put together, was marked, “With Frank’s love to Aunt Mary.” And if he had searched through all the city for a gift, he could have found nothing that would have pleased her half so well. For added to her pleasure in receiving was the better pleasure of giving. The present was what she had been wishing for two or three winters past—a fur coat for her husband. It was not a very handsome coat. That is, it was not one of those costly garments, which sometimes rich men purchase and wear, quite as much for appearance as for comfort. It was the best of its kind, however; well made and impervious to the cold, if a coat could be made so; and when papa put it on and buttoned it round him, there were many exclamations of admiration and delight.

“We need not be afraid of Hardscrabble winds any more, papa,” said David.

“I should think not. ‘Blow winds and crack your cheeks,’” said Jem, laughing.

Little Mary was more than half inclined to be afraid of her papa in his unaccustomed garb, but Ned laughed at her, and made her look at Violet, who was passing her hand over the soft fur, caressing it as if she loved it; and Jessie made them all laugh by telling them that when she became a rich woman, she meant to send a fur coat to all the ministers.

It is possible that some young people, and even some people not young, may smile, and be a little contemptuous over the idea of so much interest and delight in so small a matter. It can only be said of them, that there are some things happening every day in the world, that such people don’t know of, and cannot be supposed to understand. That a good woman should have to plan and wait one season, and then another, for the garment much desired—absolutely necessary for the health and comfort of her husband, need not surprise any one. It has happened to other than ministers’ wives many a time, I suppose. I know it has happened to some ofthem. It happened once, certainly, in the experience of Mrs Inglis, and her delight in Frank’s present was as real, though not so freely expressed, as was that of her children. It came with less of drawback than usually comes with the receiving of such a present. It came from one whom they believed quite able to give it, and from one whom they knew to be speaking the thought of his heart, when he said that the pleasure of his son Frank—whose present he wished it to be considered—was greater in giving it than theirs could possibly be in receiving it. Then there were thanks for their kindness to his boy, and hopes expressed that the two families would come to know more of each other in the future than had seemed possible in the past, and, altogether, it was a nice letter to send and to receive in the circumstances.

But few pleasures are quite unmixed in this world. Even while Mrs Inglis was rejoicing over her husband’s future comfort, and the removal of her own anxiety with regard to it, she could not but say to herself, as she watched his flushed face and languid movements, “If it had only come a little sooner!” But she did not spoil the enjoyment of the rest by uttering her thoughts. Indeed, she was displeased with herself, calling herself unthankful and unduly anxious, and sought with earnestness to put them out of her mind.

There was something else in the letter sent by Mr Oswald, which, for the present, the father and mother did not think it necessary to discuss with the children. This was the offer made to them for David, of the situation as junior clerk in the bank of which Mr Oswald was managing director. There was no immediate necessity of deciding about the matter, as the place would not be vacant till spring, and the father and mother determined to take time to look at the matter in all its lights, before they said anything about it to David. He was already nearly fitted to enter the university, and they hoped that some time or other, means would be found to send him there; but he was too young to enter at once, and, also, he was too young and boyish-looking, to hope for a long time yet to be able to earn means to help himself, as so many students are able to do, by teaching in the public schools. So it seemed likely that this situation might be the very thing they could wish for him for the next few years. However, there were many things to be considered with regard to it. It might unsettle him from his eager pursuit of his studies, and from the cheerful doing of his other duties, were anything to be said about his leaving home just now. So they were silent, and the old year went out, and the new year came in, and everything went on as usual, till the time for the donation visit drew near.

Donation visits ought to be pleasant occasions to all concerned, for we have the very highest authority as to the blessedness of giving, and only mean and churlish natures will refuse to accept graciously what is graciously bestowed. That they often fail to be so, arises less frequently from the lack of “graciousness” on the part of either pastor or people, than from the fact that the principle on which they are often undertaken is a mistaken one—the design to thus supplement some acknowledged deficiency in the matter of the minister’s salary. It often happens that the people regard as a gift, what their pastor and his family accept as their right, and thus both parties are defrauded of the mutual benefits which are the result of obligations cheerfully conferred and gratefully received.

The parish of Gourlay was very much like other parishes, in regard to these matters. They were not a rich people. The salary of their minister was moderately liberal, considering their means, but it was scant enough considering the requirements of the minister’s family. It was not very regularly, nor very promptly paid; still, in one form or other, the stipulated amount generally found its way to the minister’s house in the course of the year. So that the donation visit was not made for the purpose of making up a deficiency in the salary agreed on, but rather as an acknowledgment on the part of some of the people that the salary agreed upon was not sufficient, and as a token of good-will on the part of all.

If it had occurred to the people to put their expression of good-will in the form of increased salary, it would doubtless have been more agreeable to Mr Inglis. Still, he knew that more could be done on an occasion of this kind, with less inconvenience to that part of the people who were most liberal, than could be done in the legitimate way of annual subscriptions, and he had, on the whole, sufficient confidence in their kindly feeling to prevent any very painful sense of obligation in receiving their gifts, and no expression of any such feeling was ever permitted to mar the enjoyment of the occasion, as far as the people were concerned. In short, the minister and his wife had come to consider the annual donation visit, as one of those circumstances in life out of which pain or pleasure may be gotten, according as they are made the worst or the best of by those most concerned; and as they had been making the best of them for a good many years now, they were justified in looking forward to a reasonable amount of enjoyment from this one.

As for the children, they did not think of anything but enjoyment in connection with it. To them the overturning of all things in the house, up-stairs and down, which was considered a necessary part of the preparations, was great fun. Some overturning was absolutely necessary for the entertainment of about a third more people than the house could conveniently hold. So there was the putting aside all brittle articles, the shoving of tables and bureaus into corners, the taking down of beds, and the arranging of seats over all the house. For all the house must be thrown open, and the result was confusion, certainly not so delightful to the mother as to the children. The prospect of the crowd was delightful to them, too, and so were the possibilities in the way of presents. Besides the staples, butter, cheese, flannel, oats, and Indian meal, there was a possibility of something particular and personal to every one of them—chickens, or mittens, or even a book. Once Jem had got a jack-knife, and David a year of “The Youth’s Companion.” Last year Violet had got a new dress from Mrs Smith, and Jem a pair of boots. Very good boots they had been—they were not bad yet, but the thought of them was not altogether agreeable to Jem. However nice the boots, the being reminded of the gift by Master Smith, and that before all the boys at school, and more than once, was not at all nice; and Jem had to look back with mingled shame and triumph on a slight passage of arms that had been intended to put an end to that sort of thing on Master Smith’s part. There was no danger, he thought, of getting any more boots from Mrs Smith, and all the people were not like her and her son.

Out of this trouble about the boots had arisen in Jem’s mind some serious misgivings as to the entire desirableness of donation visits. David and Violet had had them before, but they were not so ready to speak of these things as Jem was; or rather as Jem would have been if his conscience had been quite clear as regarded the matter of Master Smith.

“There would be no good in troubling mamma with it,” said Jem, and so there had been no exciting of one another by foolish talking; and, indeed, their misgivings had neither been of a depth nor of a nature to spoil the prospect of the visit to them. Great fun was anticipated as usual. Debby, though her sister was by no means well yet, came back to assist in the general confusion.

“There shall be no talk of ‘allowances’ this time,” said Debby; and cellar and garret, pantry, cupboard, and closet, were all put through such a process of purifying and arranging, that not the neatest house-keeper in Gourlay could have the least chance or excuse for hinting that any “allowances” were needed. Debby’s honour as a house-keeper was at stake, to say nothing of the honour of Mrs Inglis.

“It seems as natural as possible to get back to the old spot,” said Debby; “and I wish to goodness sister Serepta would get well, or do something else. I mean, I wish she would go and stay to Uncle Jason’s, or have Aunt Myra come and stay with her. I’m thankful your ma’s got along so far, without any of those shiftless Simmses or Martins in to help her. But she’s looking a kind of used up, ain’t she? And it beats all how your pa’s cold hangs on, don’t it?”

“Oh! papa is much better,” said David, eagerly, “and mamma is quite well. She is tired, but now you are here, she just lets things go, and rests. She knows it will be all right.”

“That’s so,” said Debby, “and she can’t do better.”

And, indeed, she could not. Her affairs were in good hands. Debby was “as smart as a trap,” and capable of anything in the way of house-keeping duties. And though not blessed with the mildest temper—people “as smart as traps” seldom are—she had the faculty of adapting herself to circumstances, and of identifying herself with the family in which she lived, in a way that stood in stead of a good deal. She was quite too smart for the patient endurance of the whims of a nervous invalid, and found positive refreshment in the present bustle and hurry, and was inclined not only to be agreeable, but confidential on the occasion.

“It’s to be hoped it will amount to something this time,” said she. “All this fuss and worry ought not to go for nothing, that’s a fact. It would suit better all round, if they’d pay your pa at first, and have done with it. I don’t believe in presents myself—not till folks’ debts are paid at any rate,” said Debby, looking at the subject from the minister’s family’s point of view. “But I ain’t going to begin on that. Miss Bethia—she’s been letting in the light on some folks’ mind, but as this visit has got to be, I only hope we’ll get enough to pay us for our trouble; and I wish it were well over.”

The eventful evening came at last. It would be quite impossible to give here a full and clear account of all that was said and done, and given and received that night. It was a very successful visit, whether considered socially, or with reference to the results in the way of donations. Afterwards—a good while afterwards—they all used to think and speak of it as a delightful visit indeed. It was not without its little drawbacks, but on the whole, it was a delightful visit even at the time, and afterwards all drawbacks were forgotten. Jem had a little encounter with Mrs Smith, which he did not enjoy much at the moment, but which did not spoil the remembrance of it to him. She did not seem to resent his conduct about the boots. On the contrary, she placed him under still further obligations to her by presenting him with the “makings” of a jacket, which Jem accepted shamefacedly, but still gratefully enough, quite forgetting the dignified resolution he had confided to David, to decline all further favours from her with thanks.

David enjoyed the evening for the same reasons that all the rest enjoyed it, and so did Violet, and for another reason besides. For the very first time, she was spoken to, and treated as if she were a grown-up young lady, and a little girl no longer. This was delightful to Violet, who, though she was nearly sixteen, was small of her age, and had always been one of the children like all the rest. It was old Mrs Kerr, from the Gore Corner, who spoke to her about it first.

“A great help you must be to your mother with the house-keeping, and with the children and all,” said that nice old lady. “It’s a fine thing to have a grown-up daughter in the house. Only the chances are you’ll just go and leave her, as mine have done.”

Violet smiled, and blushed, and was conscience-stricken, not at the thought of going away to leave her mother one day, as Mrs Kerr’s daughters had done, but because she knew she had never really been much help to her mother either at the sewing or the house-keeping—not half so much as Davie had been since Debby went away. For Letty was very fond of her books, and, indeed, her duty as well as her inclination had encouraged her devotion to them, at least until lately; but she was inclined to confess her faults to the old lady, lest she should think of her what was not true.

“Never mind. It will come in good time. And there’s small blame to you for liking the books best, since you’re your father’s child, as well as your mother’s,” said Mrs Kerr, kindly. “And, indeed, they say folk can make hard work at the books, as well as at other things, and there’s no fear of you, with your mother to teach you the other things, and you growing so womanly and big withal.”

It was a very successful visit in every way. There never had been so many people present on such an occasion before; there never had been so many nice things brought and eaten. The coffee was good, and so was the tea, and the singing. The young people had a good time together, and so had the old people. The donations were of greater value than usual, and when he presented the money part of it to Mr Inglis, Mr Spry made a speech, which would have been very good “if he had known when he had done, and stopped,” Debby said, and the rest thought it was not bad as it was. And the minister certainly made a good speech when he received it.

He did not use many words in thanking the people for their gifts, but they were just the right words, and “touched the spot,” Debby said to Miss Bethia, who agreed. And then he went on to say what proved to these two, and to them all, that there was something for which he cared more than he cared for what they had to give. And they all remembered afterwards, though no one missed them at the time, that the few playful words that he was wont to address to the young men and maidens of the congregation on such occasions, were not spoken, but the words he did speak to them were such as some of them will never forget while they live.

It was all over at last, and the tired household was left to rest, and they awoke to a comfortless house next day. The boys helped to take out the boards and benches that had been used as seats, and to move back to their places the furniture that had been removed, and then the children went to school. Violet offered to stay at home and help to arrange the house, but Debby declared herself equal to the clearing up, and was not complimentary in her remarks as to her skill and ability in such matters, so Letty, nothing loth, went away with the rest. It was an uncomfortable day. Mr Inglis had taken more cold, at least his cough was worse, and he stayed up-stairs in his study, and David was glad when the time came that he could stay there too. However, there came order out of the confusion at last. It was a good job well over, Debby declared, and all agreed with her.

“I hate to go as bad as you hate to have me,” said she, in answer to Letty’s lamentations over her departure. “I don’t know but your mother had better have one of those shiftless Simmses than nobody at all. There’s considerable many steps to be taken in this house, as nobody knows better than me; and I hadn’t the responsibility of mother’s meetings, and worrying over your pa, as she has. If I were you, I’d take right hold and help, and never mind about going to school, and examination, and such, for your ma’s got more than she ought to do. I must try and doctor Serepta up, so as to get back again, or there’ll be something to pay. Well, good-bye! I’ll be down next week, if I can fix it so, to see how you’re getting along.”

Letty stood looking after her disconsolately. To stay at home from school, and give up all thoughts of prizes at the coming examination, were among the last things she would like to do, to say nothing of the distasteful housework. Still, if her mother needed her, she ought to do it, and she made up her mind to do it cheerfully if it must be. But she did not need to do it. It was of more importance that she should get on with her studies, so as to be ready to do her duty as a teacher by and by, than that she should help at home just now, her mother thought, and so for a few weeks longer, everything went on as before.

David helped his mother still, doing with skill and success a great many things which at first he had not liked to do at all. He did not get on with his studies as he would have wished, partly because he had less time than usual, and partly because his father was less able to interest himself in what he was doing. David sometimes grumbled a little to Jem about it, because he feared he should not find himself so far before Ned Hunter at the end of the year, as he wished to be; and once he said something of the kind to his mother. But that was a very small matter, in her opinion.

“For after all, Davie, my boy, the Greek, and Latin, and mathematics you are so eager for, are chiefly valuable to you as a means of discipline—as a means of preparing you for the work that is before you in the world. And I am not sure but that the discipline of little cares and uncongenial work that has come upon you this winter, may answer the purpose quite as well. At any rate, the wish to get on with your studies for the sake of excelling Ned Hunter, is not very creditable.”

“No, mamma. But still I think it is worth something to be able to keep up with one who has had so much money spent on him, at the best schools, and I here at home all the time. Don’t you think so, mamma?”

“Well!—perhaps so. But the advantages are not all on Ned’s side. Your father’s help and interest in all you have been doing, has been worth more to you than any school could have been.”

“That’s true, mamma,” said Davie, heartily. “And it is not like having lessons—tasks, I mean—to study with papa. It is pure pleasure. And that is more than Ned can say, I am afraid,” added he, laughing.

“And, besides, I don’t think these things would have troubled you much under any circumstances; and, as I said before, the self-denial you have had to exercise, may be better for you than even success in your studies would be.”

“Self-denial, mamma! Why, I think we have had a very happy winter, so far!”

“Indeed, we have! even with some things that we might have wished different. And, Davie, you must not think you have been losing time. A boy cannot be losing time, who is being a comfort to his father and mother. And self-denial is a better thing to learn even than Greek. If you live long, you will have more use for the one than for the other, I have no doubt.”

David laughed, and blushed with pleasure at his mother’s words.

“I am glad that you think so—I mean that I have been a comfort. But as for the self-denial, I don’t believe any of the boys have had a better time than I have had this winter. If papa were only well! But he is better now, mamma?”

“Yes; I hope so. If it were May instead of January, I should not be afraid.”

“Have you been afraid, mamma? Are you afraid?” asked David, startled.

“No—not really afraid, only anxious, and, indeed, I am becoming less so every day.”

And there seemed less cause. Wrapped in his wonderful coat of fur and driven by David, the minister went here and there among his people, just as usual, and had a great deal of satisfaction in it, and was not more tired at such times than he had often been before. He preached on Sunday always at the village, and generally at his other stations as well, and David might well say these were happy days.

Yes, they were happy days, and long to be remembered, because of the sorrowful days that came after them. Not but that the sorrowful days were happy days, too, in one sense; at least, they were days which neither David nor his mother would be willing ever to forget.

Young people do not like to hear of sorrowful days, and sometimes think and say, that at least all such should be left out of books. I should say so, too, if they could also be kept out of one’s life, but sorrowful days will not be kept away by trying to forget them. And besides, life itself would not be better by their being left out, for out of such have come, to many a one, the best and most enduring of blessings. It does not need any words of mine to prove that God does not send them in anger to his people, but in love. We have His own word for that, repeated again and again. And if we did but know it, there are many days to which we look forward—which we hail with joyful welcome, of which we have more cause to be afraid, than of the days of trouble that are sent us by God.

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