They looked delighted. Lucy dropped upon a low footstool by her sister's side, and Harty stood watching eagerly to see what was to be the chosen book. He seemed disappointed when Rosa took up her little Bible, and shook his head when she asked him if he would not take the vacant chair beside her.
She began to read in the fifth chapter of Mark, "And, behold, there cometh one of the rulers of the synagogue, Jairus by name; and when he saw Him [Jesus], he fell at His feet, and besought Him greatly, saying, My little daughter lieth at the point of death: I pray thee, come and lay thy hands on her, that she may be healed; and she shall live."
Rosa had taken great pains to learn to read properly and pleasantly, for her uncle had told her that to be an agreeable reader was one way of being useful. Now her voice was sweet and natural, and she seemed herself so interested, that Lucy caught her spirit even before the "little daughter" was mentioned; but at these words her attention was fixed, and she listened eagerly to hear what was to follow.
Harty, meanwhile, stood rolling the corner of the neat white curtain in his hands, which were not particularly clean, and looking undecidedly about him. When Rosa finished the sentence, he hurried from the room, saying, "I'm going to see my chickens."
She glanced at the soiled curtain and then at Harty as he closed the door: for a moment she looked fretted, but it was only a moment; a sweet smile took the place of the half-formed frown, and she went on with the reading.
Lucy had heard the story before of the raising of the ruler's daughter, but now it seemed quite new to her, and her eyes were bright with wonder and pleasure, as her sister closed the book.
"Rosa," she said, "I should like to have been that little girl!"
"Why?" said Rosa,
"Because—because," answered Lucy—"because she must have been so glad to be alive again. I wonder what she said when they told her all that had happened."
"I hope she thanked the land Saviour, and learned to love Him very dearly."
"How sorry she must have been that the Saviour could not stay and live at her home, and take care of her always," said Lucy.
"Lucy," said Rosa, "the same thing may happen to you as to that little girl; but after Christ has said to you, Arise, you may live with Him always."
Lucy looked half-frightened, and answered, "I don't understand you. I should have to die first;" and she shuddered at the thought.
"No; you may have Christ with you always, without dying, but you cannot see Him. He will take care of you, and you can speak to Him, and He will do what you ask Him. If you remember that He loves you and is ever at your side, when you come to die it will seem like opening your eyes to see the kind Friend who has been so long with you."
Lucy's eyes filled with tears, and in her heart she wished that she loved the Saviour as Rosa did. "I will try and remember that He is with me," she said to herself; and for the first time the idea was pleasant to her. Before she had only thought of God as seeing her when she was doing wrong, and it had always been a very painful thought to her.
Many minutes had passed when Lucy started up, saying, "There goes the church bell; it is time to get ready."
Rosa and Lucy were quite ready, when Harty came running into the room, his hair in its usual tumbled state, and his coat dusty and torn. "Oh! I have had such a chase," he said: "one of my 'bantys' got out, and I had to jump over the fence and chase him all over the orchard before I could catch him. And see here, where I tore my coat putting him back in the coop. Why! you are all ready: is it church-time?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Lucy; "and I hate to be late, people all look at you so."
"I hate to be late, too," said Harty; "I do like to watch the people come in."
"Harty! Harty!" interrupted Rosa; "don't talk so. Make haste and get ready."
"Never mind me," said Harty; "you walk on, and I can catch up with you: it won't take me but a minute to change my coat—these trowsers will do."
"But, Harty, you will have to brush your hair and your shoes, and wash yourself. It would not be respectful to the place where you are going to enter in such a plight."
"Pshaw!" said Harty, angrily; "I will not go at all; you can find your way, with little Lucy to open the door for you."
Rosa was tempted to leave him, for she, too, disliked to be late at church, but not for either of the reasons that had been mentioned. She liked to be in her seat before the service commenced, that she might have time to collect her thoughts, and be ready to join with the congregation in the solemn worship of God.
"My brother ought not to stay at home," she thought: "it will be better to wait for him, even if we are late." "Come, Harty," said she, encouragingly, "we will help you, and you will soon be ready."
Lucy was dispatched to the kitchen for the shoes that had been cleaned, for Harty's cap, pocket-hankerchief, another clean collar, &c.; in short, she had so many things to run for, that she stopped on the landing, so weary that she was glad to take breath. There Mrs. Maxwell met her, and said, "Take off those things, Lucy Vale; you ought not to think of going to church after the wetting you got yesterday. Your father didn't say you might go; I noticed it this morning."
"But I am quite well," pleaded Lucy. "I think he would let me go, if he were at home."
"But he is not at home. At noon you can ask him. Go now and undress as fast as you can." Without another word Mrs. Maxwell passed down stairs.
Lucy dropped down upon the lowest stop, and began to cry bitterly.
"Ready at last!" shouted Harty: "now Lucy, my Prayer Book."
But no Lucy came. Rosa and Harty came towards her, and wore astonished to see her face wot with tears.
"What is the matter?" asked Rosa: "have you hurt yourself?"
"No!" sobbed Lucy; "but Mrs. Maxwell says I must not go to church."
"Pooh! is that all?" said Harty; "why, you are not always so fond of church-going!"
This was true, for Lucy often stayed away from church when Mrs. Maxwell did not oblige her to go; but on this particular morning she wanted to go with her sister, whom she was beginning to love very dearly.
"But why mustn't you go?" asked Rosa.
"Because I got in the water yesterday, and Mrs. Maxwell says I am not well."
"Never mind, dear," said Rosa, "perhaps father will let you go out this afternoon. Don't cry any more; we shall not be gone long. Good-bye."
Harty was rather glad that Lucy could not go; he never liked to take Lucy anywhere with him. Perhaps he thought it made him appear more like a mere boy to have his little sister by his side, or that she was not fit to associate with so wise a gentleman as himself.
If his sister Rosa had felt as ungenerously and unkindly to those younger than herself, she would have at least laughingly refused the arm which he offered her as they went down the walk. But she took the arm, although she had to stoop a little in doing so, and talked with her brother as if he really were the man he was trying to appear.
As Harty was thus honoured, he looked back triumphantly at poor Lucy, who was still watching them. A pang of envy shot through the heart of the little girl. Julia Staples's evil words came to her mind; the bad seed was springing up. "Rosa and Harty will always be together; they won't care for me," she thought. But good seed had been sown by Rosa, and it, too, now sprang up. "God loves me," thought the little girl; "if I try to please Him I shall be happy."
She rose and wont into her own pretty room: there she put everything carefully in its proper place, and felt a new pleasure in doing so; for it was her duty.
The house was very still, and as Lucy moved about she was half startled at the sound of her own footsteps. She went into her sister's room to sit, for she fancied that it was more pleasant than her own; and then all Rosa's books were there; perhaps she might like to look at some of them.
The Bible was on the table; she took it up. "Rosa, from her Uncle Gillette," was written on the blank leaf; and before it were several sentences. They were as follows:—"Remember when you open this book, that God is with you, that He is speaking to you. Remember to ask God to bless to you what you read. When you close the book, think over what you have been reading, and take the first opportunity to practise it."
As Lucy read the first sentence, a fooling of awe stole over her; and she almost trembled to think how often she had carelessly opened the word of God, and hurried over its sacred pages. Now she reverently turned to the place where her sister had left the mark the evening before. The story of the storm on the sea of Galilee caught her eye: as she read it she felt sure that it must have been that sweet narrative which had so fixed Rosa's attention when she watched her.
Lucy repeated, again and again, the words of the blessed Saviour, "Why are ye so fearful, O ye of little faith?" They seemed addressed to her by the kind Friend who stilled the tempest, and who, Rosa had said, would be ever with her to take care of her, if she would love Him and strive to be truly His child. "I will, I will love Him, and try to please Him," she said, half-aloud. "I should never be afraid, if I were sure He would watch over me."
She took up the Prayer Book, and read the verses with which the Morning Service commences. Some of them she did not quite understand; but when she came to "I will arise, and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son," she was reminded of the day when her sister had read to her the sweet parable from which those words are taken, and how she had said that one purpose of the parable was to show how willing God is to receive all those who really come to Him. Again her purpose strengthened to be His child, who could so freely forgive.
Lucy had been over the same Service almost every Sunday since she had been able to read, and could now find all the places without assistance, but she had hardly noticed many parts of it, and to some she had listened, while they were repeated by others, as if she had no part in the matter. Now the exhortation, "Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places," seemed so direct and simple, that she wondered she could ever have heard it without feeling for how important a purpose she had come into the house of God.
With a strange feeling of solemnity, she knelt down and began to repeat the Confession aloud. The words were so simple and natural, and so true, that she seemed rather to be speaking what had long been in her heart, than repeating what had been spoken by many voices around her from Sunday to Sunday, while she thoughtlessly glanced on the page, or let her mind wander to other things. As she said, "We have done those things that we ought not to have done," little faults she had committed, acts known only to herself, came thronging on her memory. Among these painful recollections was the falsehood she had told about the light the morning after the thunder-storm. The whole fearful scene of that night came back to her: again she seemed standing, trembling and alone, in the passage, while the incessant lightning appeared to threaten her with instant death. So long she dwelt on these circumstances, that she quite forgot she was on her knees, speaking to the mighty God of heaven. Suddenly it flashed upon her, and she started up, as if she feared He would immediately punish her for seeming to be praying, while her thoughts were far away. Lucy had begun to realize that prayer is something more than merely repeating a form of words.
The little girl had hardly risen from her knees before there was a ring at the door. She set off immediately to save Betsy the trouble of coming up stairs, for the poor old woman suffered much from rheumatism, and Lucy knew it gave her great pain to move about. "I will go, Betsy," she called, as she passed the stairway.
A ragged Irishman was standing at the door. Lucy was almost afraid to turn the key, lest he should lay hold of her with his hard, rough hands: she felt inclined to call out to him to go away, as the doctor was not at home; but she thought of the misery that giving way to her fear of Mrs. Tappan's dog had cost her, and her father's reproof, and she resolved that no poor sufferer should go uncared-for because she was afraid to speak to a man in ragged clothes.
She threw the door wide open, and was quite relieved when the Irishman took off his hat, and asked her very respectfully, "Is the doctor in?"
"He is not," answered Lucy, promptly: "where shall I tell him to call?"
"Sure and it's jist down the lane, forninst Bridget O'Brady's: he can't miss it, for isn't it the poorest bit of roof in the place? and tell him to come quick, if you plase, miss."
The man turned to go away, but Lucy called after him, not at all satisfied that the direction would be sufficient. "What is your name?" she asked; "I want to put it down on the slate for my father."
"It's Owen M'Grath, plase you; and don't be afther stopping me, for who will be minding the baby, and the mother so sick, while I am jist talking here?" So saying, he hurried from the door.
Lucy had very little idea how the name was to be spelt, but she put it down as well as she could, the direction and all, and looked at it quite proudly when it was done. It was neatly written, but oh, the spelling!
"Who was that, Miss Lucy?" called Betsy.
"An Irishman with a queer name: he says he lives by Bridget O'Brady's," was the reply.
"Oh! dreadful!" shouted Betsy. "Why, Miss Lucy, they've got the small-pox in all them dirty little houses; you've ketched it for certain. Go, take off every rag of clothes you've got on, and throw them into the tub there in the yard: I don't know who'll wash 'em. I am sure I should not want to touch 'em with a broomstick."
Poor Lucy, pale and trembling, ran up stairs and did as Betsy had advised. Even in the midst of her fright she could not help thinking that she was glad it was her calico, not the favourite silk, that she happened to have on, since she must thrust it into the water, to lie there till some one should dare to remove it.
The happy birds were still singing about the pretty cottage, and the trees were waving in the sunshine, but Lucy did not see them; her hands were pressed tightly over her eyes, and she rocked to and fro, thinking of all the horrible stories she had heard about the disease which Betsy said she had "ketched for certain."
"I shall be very ill," she thought, "and who will dare to nurse me? Perhaps I shall die; and if I get well, my face will be all marked, so that nobody will like to look at me. I wonder if Rosa would be afraid to sit by my bed, if nobody else would stay with me. I should hate to see her face all pitted. How badly I should feel if she should take the small-pox from me. Perhaps I shall give it to her if I see her now." At this last thought, Lucy ran into her own little room. There she sat sobbing until church was out. She forgot that there was a Friend with her, in that quiet room, who could have given her comfort, if she had called on Him in her trouble.
Rosa and Harty were scarcely out of the church door before he began, "Oh! Rosa, did you see how grand Madam Maxwell looked, when she moved for you to take the end of the pew? It was as much as to say, 'I suppose, little miss, you think you ought to sit here, but you are very presuming.' I would have taken it if I had been in your place. It made me mad to see her settle herself so satisfied, when you refused."
"Fie, Harty!" answered Rosa; "Mrs. Maxwell is a great deal older than I am, and it is far more suitable that she should have the most comfortable seat. I should be sorry if my coming home interfered with her in any way. She has been most faithful in taking charge of the house since—since—" since our dear mother died, Rosa would have added, but her eyes filled and her voice failed her. The familiar scene in the church had brought her lost mother freshly before her, and she well remembered when they last trod that same path together.
After a few moments she recovered herself, and said, "When I last passed this spot, Harty, our dear mother was with me. She had been talking very sweetly to me, as we walked, of the blessing we had in being able to go out that pleasant morning, and worship God with His people, while so many poor invalids must remain at home, and even dear father could not be with us. Just here, I asked her a question which had long been in my mind. I had always noticed that as soon as she entered the pew, she knelt down for a few minutes. I wondered what that was for, as I could not find anything about it in the Prayer Book. 'Mother,' said I, 'what do you say when you kneel down before church begins?' 'I make a short prayer,' she answered, 'that I may remember that I am in God's house, and that He will teach me to worship Him aright. Many people,' she continued, 'who come early to church, quite forget that they are in the house of God as much before the service begins as afterwards, and spend the time until the clergyman comes in, in looking about and observing their neighbours, until their minds are quite unfit to join in any solemn duty. I think the habit of asking the blessing of God on the prayers you are about to offer, and the truths you are about to hear, is a great help in reminding you immediately that you are with the Lord in His holy temple.' 'Won't you teach me a little prayer to say, that I may do as you do?' I asked. 'Yes, darling,' she answered, with one of her sweet, loving smiles; and as we walked by this hedge, which was just planted then, she taught me these words, which I have said, many, many times since our dear mother was taken by her Heavenly Father to a better world:—
"'Lord, make me remember that I am in Thy house. Keep me from dullness and wandering thoughts. Hear my prayers to-day, and bless to my soul the truths I shall hear, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.'"
Harty listened with interest to every word that Rosa tittered: he often wanted to hear some one talk of his mother, but it was too sad a subject for his father to speak freely upon, and Lucy could hardly remember her.
Rosa gladly perceived that he was interested, and added, "I will write out the little prayer for you, Harty; I know you will like to keep it, and use it, for our dear mother's sake."
Harty looked embarrassed, but he did not refuse his sister's offer. She immediately changed the subject by saying, "Poor little Lucy will be glad to see us by this time. I hope she can go out this afternoon. I like to have her with us."
Harty wondered that Rosa should wish for the society of such a child as Lucy; but his respect for her involuntarily rose when he found that Rosa spoke affectionately of her.
As they drew near the house, they caught a glimpse of Lucy looking sorrowfully from her window. She did not run to meet them, as they expected, but old Betsy came out saying, "Oh! only think of it! Miss Lucy has got the small-pox, I know she has. There's been a man here that must have it, for he lives down by Bridget O'Brady's, where they are dirty enough to make them all ill."
Rosa was startled for a moment, but she answered calmly, "But Lucy has been vaccinated, Betsy; she would not take the small-pox even if the man really had it."
"I don't believe nothin' at all invaxnation," said Betsy; "it don't stand to reason. I telled Miss Lucy she'd ketched the small-pox, and I believe she has."
"Poor child!" said Rosa; and she ran hastily up stairs. Harty did not follow, for although he laughed at Lucy's timidity, he was a bit of a coward about some things himself; and old Betsy's words had alarmed him not a little.
"Let me in, Lucy," said Rosa's sweet voice entreatingly; "I could not take the small-pox if you had it."
Lucy gladly unfastened the door. Rosa took the trembling girl in her lap. For a few moments Lucy sobbed violently, and not a word was spoken; at length Rosa said, tenderly, "Dear Lucy, there is no danger of what you dread so much. Here, let me look at those little arms: there is the scar where you wore vaccinated when you were a baby, that you might never take the small-pox. Your kind father took good care that his little Lucy should not have her smooth face all pitted."
"Can't I have it?" asked Lucy, the tears still in her eyes.
"No! certainly not!" was the reply.
"But, dearest," continued Rosa, "you may be exposed to other diseases quite as dangerous. I wish you could learn to trust the Heavenly Father, who loves you more dearly even than our own papa; then you would not be afraid of anything. Shall I tell you what I heard uncle Gillette saying to one of the little girls at school, who was afraid of lightning."
"Oh! do," said Lucy; "I am so frightened when it thunders."
Lucy nestled closer in her sister's lap, and Rosa began.
"There was once a mighty king who was so terrible in war that all his enemies were afraid of him; the very sound of his name made them tremble. His arm was so strong that the horse and its rider would sink under one blow of his battle-axe; and when he struck with his sharp sword, his enemies fell dead at his feet. This mighty king had a little fair-haired daughter, who watched him as he prepared for the battle. She saw him put on his helmet, and laughed as the plumes nodded above his brow. She saw the stately battle-axe brought forth; she saw him take his keen sword in his hand; he tried its edge, then waved it about his head in the sunlight. She laughed as it glanced sparkling through the air; and even while it was upheld she ran towards her father to take a parting kiss. Why was not the little child afraid of the mighty king with the fierce weapons? Because he was her father; she knew that he loved her, loved her as his own life. She knew that those dangerous weapons would never be used against her unless to save her from worse peril. Do you understand what uncle Gillette meant by this story?"
"Not exactly," said Lucy; "won't you tell me?"
"He meant," said Rosa, "that God is like that mighty king. Sickness, lightning, danger, trial, death, are all His weapons; but we need not fear them if we are truly His children. When the sharp lightning flashes in the sky, we can look calmly at its beauty, for it is in our Father's hand. Sickness may be around us, but our Father can keep us safe. Death may come, but it will only be to send us to our Father's arms."
"But I am not His child," half sobbed Lucy.
"His child you are, my dear little sister: His loving, obedient child, I hope you will be."
At this moment the dinner-bell rang. Rosa waited till Lucy could wash away the traces of her tears and smooth her hair, and then they went down stairs together. Mrs. Maxwell looked up with a smile as Rosa came in; her thoughtful deference was beginning to have its effect.
"Hurrah! for the small-pox!" shouted Harty, as Lucy came in. He had heard from his father that the danger was imaginary, and, forgetting his own fears, he quite despised Lucy for her fright.
"Come here, my little patient," said the doctor to the blushing child. "I don't wonder my pet was frightened: old Betsy ought to be ashamed for being so foolish. Poor Owen M'Grath could injure no one; his sorrow is his worst disease. You see I made out the name in your spelling, and I am obliged to my little girl for trying to write the message so exactly. Owen had as neat a little home as you could wish to see, but it is a sad, sad place now. His poor wife has long been ill with consumption; she died this noon, and there is no one to take charge of his little baby but his daughter, who is only as old as you are, Lucy."
"Can we not do something for them, father?" asked Rosa.
"How like her mother," thought the doctor. "Yes, dear child," he replied; "I will take you to see them to-morrow."
"May I go too?" asked Harty, eagerly.
The father smiled and nodded his head. "We will not leave little Lucy behind, either," he added, to her great delight; "that is, if she is well enough. My pet looks a little pale yet. You did well, Mrs. Maxwell, not to let her go out this morning."
Mrs. Maxwell gave a glance at Lucy, which made her drop her eyes.
"I shall not be at home to hear your catechism this evening, Lucy," said Mrs. Maxwell, as she left the dinner-table; "I am going to see a sick friend after church, as Miss Rosa can take my place at tea-time."
"Willingly," said Rosa, "and hear the catechism too," she added, internally.
Sunday afternoon passed away very rapidly to Lucy. She spent the time while her brother and sister were at church in reading a little book which Rosa had lent her.
As the children sat together in the twilight, after tea, Rosa said to Lucy, "We used to call you baby and pet at first: do you know when we began to call you Lucy?"
"Not till I was two months old, I've heard father say."
"Yes; I well remember the morning that you took your new name," continued Rosa. "It was a bright day in June. Dear mamma was so kind and cheerful then. I can see her now as she came in to breakfast, so slender and pale, and yet with such a calm, happy look on her face.
"'You must call the baby Lucy after to-day,' she said to me, as I kissed her that morning.
"'And why, dear mother?' I asked.
"'Because she is to be baptized to-day, and take Lucy for her Christian name,' answered our mother.
"'But why is the baby to be baptized?' I childishly asked. She took no notice of my question then; but after breakfast was over, she called me to her side, and said, 'Shall I tell my little girl a story?'
"'Oh, do!' I answered, and she began.
"'There was once a little child who lived in a very small cottage, with a scanty grass plat before it. This child had a pet lamb, of which she was very fond. She loved it so dearly that she often sat on the door-step and anxiously thought how she should ever be able to keep it from harm as it grew older, and would be tempted to run away from the cottage, around which there was not even a light paling. Then winter must come, and how would the poor little lamb be protected from the storm?
"'These thoughts were one day in the child's mind, when an old traveller came to the cottage door, and said to her, "I have a message to you, dear child, from the shepherd who feeds his flock on yonder green hill. He has noticed you and your little lamb, and he wants to be a friend to you. He knows that you will never be able to keep your pet from harm, although you love it so tenderly; and he bade me say to you, that he is willing to take your lamb to be one of his flock, to feed in that green pasture and drink from the clear stream that is ever flowing there. It shall be safely gathered to his fold when the storms of winter beat, and shall be guarded from all cruel beasts. You can see it every day, and caress it, though you must never try to lead it away from him. Shall we go together and lead the little lamb to the kind shepherd?"
"'"Yes!" shouted the child, joyfully; and she took the old traveller's hand, and gently led the lamb away by the blue ribbon that was about its neck.
"'It was but a short distance they had to go, yet the traveller found time to tell the child, as they walked together, that if her lamb learned to know the shepherd's voice, and follow him, he would take it some day to a beautiful land, where it could hunger and thirst no more; where there would be no more storms, nor cruel beasts, and where she might meet it and dwell for ever with the kind shepherd and his blessed flock.
"'The child did not see the kind shepherd; but the peaceful sheep, feeding on the delicate food, or lying beside the clear water, were there, and she did not fear to leave her pet among them. Day by day she saw her lamb grow stronger and happier, and more pure and gentle, and she rejoiced that she had placed it among the favoured flock.
"'One day the little child grew dizzy and faint: all things around her seemed fading from her sight, and her dim eyes could only see a strange figure which seemed beckoning her away.
"'Then at her side she heard the voice of the old traveller who had visited her before: "Fear not," said he; "you are going to the beautiful land where the kind shepherd dwells." Then a pang shot through the heart of the child, for she thought of the lamb that she must leave behind her. The traveller guessed her thoughts, and answered, "Your little lamb is in the care of the kind shepherd!" Then the eyes of the child were bright, and she said, "I don't fear for my little lamb: I am happy that I placed him where he will be so tenderly cared for, when I did not know that I so soon must leave him. May he learn to know the kind shepherd's voice, and follow him, that we may meet again in the beautiful land."
"'The cottage was soon all silence: the child no longer went singing from room to room, but she was happy, far away in the blessed land which the kind shepherd prepared for his faithful flock.'"
"'Did the little lamb go to meet her there?' I asked, as dear mamma stopped as if she had finished the story.
"'I cannot tell you, Rosa,' she answered, and fast the tears fell from her eyes. 'By the lamb I mean your little sister, and the kind shepherd is the Saviour, to whom I am to give her to-day. God only knows whether our little Lucy will reach the blessed land.'
"'But you are not going away, mamma, as the child did,' I said, my eyes, too, filling with tears, for I too well understood her meaning.
"'Perhaps not very soon,' she answered, and smiled away her tears."
Lucy was still silent, and Rosa went on, for both Harty and Lucy were earnestly listening.
"When you were carried up the aisle, dear Lucy, all in your white clothing, you seemed to me like the little lamb of which mother had spoken, and I felt that you were being received into the flock of the kind shepherd. You smiled when the water was sprinkled on your forehead, and I was so glad, for that made you seem willing to be placed in His care."
Lucy listened to the story of the child and the lamb; and when she heard its explanation her heart was full, and she inwardly resolved that she would try so to follow the Saviour here, that she might join her mother at last in His blessed land. As Rosa recalled the circumstances of her Baptism, she for the first time realized that it had really happened, that her name had been really given by her "sponsors in Baptism."
"Was I there too?" asked Harty, beginning to be restless, as there was a short pause.
"Yes, indeed! and so eager to see the ceremony that you climbed on to the seat, and leaned forward to look until you fell with a loud noise, just as the baby was being carried out of church. You always were a noisy fellow," said Rosa, as she laid her hand affectionately on her brother's clustered curls.
"Did I cry?" asked Harty.
"No; you thought yourself too much of a man for that, even then; and how fondly, proudly, mamma looked at you, as you closed your little lips and stood up without a sound, though there was a bright red mark on your forehead where you had struck it."
It seemed strange to Harty that he was willing to sit still and listen to a girl; yet he found a pleasure in being with Rosa different from any he had ever felt. He had always been quite indifferent as to what Lucy thought of him, but that Rosa should not be pleased with him was a very unpleasant idea. As a child he had tenderly loved his mother; and when she was taken from him, a blank had been left in his heart which had never been filled. Now half the charm of Rosa's society consisted in her being able to speak of that mother, and revive his now fading remembrance of her.
"Come," said Rosa, "let us say our Catechism together: I will ask the questions, and we will all repeat the answers."
Lucy was delighted at the idea, and readily joined her voice with Rosa's. She found it difficult to keep with her sister in reciting, as Rosa repeated her answers slowly, as if she really meant what she was saying. As she pronounced the words, "a member of Christ, a child of God," she looked meaningly at Lucy; and then it flashed through the little girl's mind, that she was indeed the child of God, as her sister had said; His child, not only because He had made her, but because she had been made His by Baptism; and again she resolved to be His "loving, obedient child."
At first Harty did not join in saying the Catechism; he had for some time given up the practice as a thing only for such children as Lucy; but when he saw that Rosa did not think it beneath her, as they came to the Apostles' Creed his voice mingled with the others. Rosa took no notice of it save that she placed her hand in his, and they went on. In some of the long answers Lucy faltered, and Harty halted entirely; but Rosa smoothly continued until they could again join her. As Harty repeated the once familiar words, he recalled the time when he had learned them from that mother who was now a saint in Paradise. With those familiar words returned the precious lessons of love and holiness which she had spoken, but which he had forgotten amid the sport and recklessness of boyhood.
When they had finished, he was quite softened, and his voice was very gentle as he replied to Rosa's proposal to sing, "Yes, if I know anything you do."
Lucy was fond of music, but she could not sing: she laid her head on her sister's lap, and listened to the simple hymns with a feeling of peace and happiness. Another and another hymn was sung, until, at last, the clock struck nine.
"Nine o'clock," said Harty, "and Lucy not in bed! what would Mrs. Maxwell say to that?"
Lucy had been fast asleep, and was not a little frightened when she heard it was so late. She took a candle immediately, kissed her sister and wished her good night. Oh! what pleasure it gave her when Harty said, "Me, too, if you please," and really looked fondly in her face.
That night she forgot to look for robbers; she was too happy to think of them; but she did not forget the many blessings of the day when she repeated her usual thanksgiving. The same prayers she had often said she used that evening; but they went up from her heart, and were received in heaven for the Redeemer's sake.
Often, during school-hours on Monday, the promised visit to Owen M'Grath's came into Lucy's mind, and she longed for four o'clock to come, that she might be at liberty. School was over at last, and with the pleasant consciousness of having done well the duties of the day, Lucy tripped towards home. Julia Staples had tried several times to draw her into a whispered conversation, but she had resisted the temptation; and when Julia offered her an apple, and put her arm in hers, to draw her aside for a confidential chat, Lucy refused the gift and got away as soon as she could with politeness. She had learned that the first step towards doing right, is to keep as much as possible out of the way of temptation; and she knew that Julia's society roused her evil feelings.
"Dear me, how stuck-up somebody is!" said Julia Staples to one of her companions, as Lucy turned away.
Lucy heard the remark, and her face flushed slightly, but she made no reply.
Julia did not offer to accompany Lucy home, but with two of the scholars, who were much like herself, she walked behind the little girl, "making fun of her." Of this Lucy knew nothing. Lightly and rapidly she walked along, not looking behind her, but welcoming each turn in the road that brought her nearer home.
Rosa and Harty were standing at the door to meet her. "I do believe you were kept in," began Harty; "we have been waiting for you this half-hour."
"Come, come! young gentleman," interposed Rosa playfully, "you are in such a hurry to wait on the ladies, that the time seems long to you. It is but five minutes past four."
The teased, fretted expression that was coming over Lucy's face passed away in an instant, and Harty's impatience was changed to a smile.
The children, set off together in high spirits. Even Rosa, although she know she was going to the house of mourning, caught something of their spirit, and chatted cheerfully by the way.
Dr. Vale was just driving up to Owen's door when they arrived.
"That's right! all punctual," said he, as he alighted; and when he looked upon their bright faces, he felt thankful that his little group had been so far spared from sickness and death. The happy young voices were hushed in an instant, as they entered the dark, quiet room, into which the street-door opened. There was but a little furniture, and that of the plainest sort, yet all was neat and tidy. The pale, lifeless form of the mother was stretched upon the bed, and close at its side there nestled a sleeping infant, rosy with health.
The little girl, who was sitting beside them, her head on her hands, jumped up as the strangers came in. She instantly recognised the doctor, and said, in a low voice, "Won't the docther plase to be sated, and the young gintleman and ladies?"
Noiselessly she put forward the chairs, and whispered as she did so, "Whisht! the poor babby has been grievin' so I could not hush him at all, and sorra a bit would he sleep till I laid him there by poor mammy, and then he cuddled up to her cold side and seemed quite contint."
"Poor baby!" said Rosa, the tears in her eyes.
They all drew near to the bed, and looked into the face of the dead. Harty gave one glance and then stepped to the door; he could not bear it; he felt a choking in his throat to which he was quite unaccustomed.
As Rosa and Lucy looked upon the calm, sweet expression of the face, they felt no chill of horror. Death seemed less terrible to Lucy than it had ever done before. "She is happy now?" half questioned she of Rosa.
Rosa looked puzzled, but the doctor replied, "Yes, she is happy. 'I'm going home,' were her last words. She has only gone to be with the Friend whom she has served faithfully through life."
"Did you say mammy was happy?" asked Judy, the little girl who had been acting as nurse.
"Happy with the angels in heaven," was the doctor's reply.
"Then I'd not want her back again, to be sorrying here. Little peace she's had, with that misery in her side, for many a day. Why, the lifting of Larry there, was enough to make her all put to it for an hour. Poor fayther, he can't get along with it all: sorra a bit has he tasted to-day, and he cried fit to break his heart when he went away to work this morning; but he said he must go, for he'd niver a sixpence to pay for the burying."
The poor little girl had been so long alone that it seemed to be quite a relief to her to talk to some one who felt for her.
"You'll be a comfort to him, I know," said Rosa, gently.
"I'll lave nothing untiched that I can turn my hand to," answered Judy, earnestly.
The talking, although it was in a low voice, waked Larry, and he began to moan piteously. He put out his hand, touched the cold face near him, and then drew it quickly away. He half-raised his head, but seeing that it was his mother's cheek that had so startled him, he again put forth his hand and patted her gently until he was again asleep.
"And what will poor Larry do when they lay her in the cold ground?" said little Judy, half crying.
"He will soon be comforted," whispered Rosa: "God will take care of you both. It must have been a long time since your mother has been able to sew," she continued, to divert Judy's mind from her trouble.
"Ach! yes. She has not set a stitch for two months gone; and there's Larry, with sorra a bit of clothes but them he has on, savin' this thrifle of a frock that I've been trying to wash for the burying."
As she said this she put her hand on a little faded calico frock that was hanging near the window.
"I think we can get some clothes for Larry," said Rosa: "may I take this home with me for a pattern?"
Judy looked a little confused, but she answered, "Sartainly, miss."
"Can you sew, Judy?" asked Rosa.
"I never was learnt," was Judy's reply.
"Would you like to have me teach you? If you would, you may come to me every Saturday morning, and I will show you how."
Judy's eyes brightened, and she was going to accept the offer very gladly, when she thought of Larry, and changed her mind.
"I can't lave Larry; there's nobody but me to mind him now."
"You may bring him with you; I know Lucy here will take care of him," said Rosa.
"Oh yes, I will, if he won't be afraid to stay with me," said Lucy.
Before they left the house it was agreed that Judy should come the next Saturday morning for her first lesson in sewing, if her father did not object.
Dr. Vale, who had been standing without the door with Harty, met the girls as they came out. He stepped back when Judy was alone, and placed some money in her hand, telling her to give it to her father, and say to him, that his children should not want for a friend while Dr. Vale was in the neighbourhood.
Judy curtseyed, and spoke her thanks as well as she was able, but they were not heard, for the doctor hurried away, and in a few moments had driven from the door.
Very little was said on the way home. As they passed an old house, with a rough, high fence about it, Harty told his sisters that this was where the people had been sick with small-pox.
Lucy clasped Rosa's hand a little closer, and they both stopped more rapidly.
"Father says nobody need be afraid, for they have all got well, and nobody took it from them," said Harty.
Notwithstanding this assurance, all the party felt more easy when the house with the high fence was out of sight.
"Let us stop here and buy the cloth for Larry's frocks," said Rosa, as they reached the village shop.
While Rosa was looking at some cheap woollen cloth, Harty was fumbling in his pockets. He drew out some marbles, an old knife, a peg-top, and some bits of string, and at last he found what he was seeking—a half-crown, with which he had intended to buy some new fishing-tackle. He gave one longing look at the money, and then handed it to Rosa, saying, "Take that for the cloth."
"Yes," said she, very quietly; but a bright, loving smile was on her face, and Harty felt, happy, although he was blushing as if he had been in mischief. Like many boys, Harty seemed to feel more ashamed when he did right than when he did wrong.
When the children were gathered round the table in the evening, Rosa brought out the old dress, and was just putting the scissors to it when Mrs. Maxwell exclaimed, "What are you doing, child? are you going to cut that dress to pieces?"
"I was going to rip it for a pattern," answered Rosa, mildly.
"I suppose you think I could not cut out a frock nice enough for a little Paddy boy," said Mrs. Maxwell.
"Oh no, I did not think that!" Rosa replied, smiling; "I should be very glad to have you help us."
Mrs. Maxwell took the scissors, and the frocks were soon cut out, much to Rosa's relief, for although she had resolved to do it, it was her first attempt at dressmaking, and she was afraid that she should only spoil the cloth.
Then the sewing commenced, and the needles flew so fast that there was little time for talking. Lucy was allowed to make the skirt, and she sewed it as carefully as if it had been an apron for her doll, and that was very nicely. Mrs. Maxwell put on her spectacles and began to sew too, much to Rosa's surprise; and once she offered to turn the hem for Lucy, when she saw that she was troubled. It seemed as if the work they were doing put them all in a good humour, for every face was bright and happy. Even Harty felt as if he had something to do in the business, and instead of fidgeting about as usual, annoying everybody, he sat very still for some time, doing no harm, but breaking off thread from the ball and tying it into knots. At last he said, "Shall I read to you?"
"Yes, do," said Rosa and Lucy, both at once.
"Well, I will, if Lucy will get my Natural History off my table."
Lucy jumped up in a moment, and ran for the book: the hall-lamp showed her the way until she got to the room door, and then, by the faint starlight, she easily found the volume. There were other books which Rosa would have preferred, and Harty was a very dull reader; but she listened patiently, and got quite interested at last in an account of an elephant that went mad in London, a favourite story with Harty.
Lucy was very sorry when bed-time arrived; but there was not a word to be said, for Mrs. Maxwell put the lamp in her hand, and bade her "Good night" most decidedly.
As Lucy entered her own pretty room, she thought of little Judy watching beside her dead mother in that poor cottage, and she wondered that it had never struck her before that God had surrounded her with so many blessings.
Judy's washing had not been very well done, and as Rosa thought best to send back the little frock as soon as possible, she was in haste to have it made clean.
After Lucy had gone to bed, she went to the kitchen with it in her hand. Old Betsy was sitting by the fire, looking very stupid and cross. Rosa was almost afraid to ask her to do what she had intended. She took courage, however, and said, "Betsy, I want you to wash this little frock for a poor boy who has no other to wear but the one he has on. I know you would be glad to do it, if you had seen the poor little fellow lying by his dead mother: he has nobody at home to wash his clothes now."
Betsy had looked very sour when Rosa commenced, but softened as she continued to speak, and when Rosa finished, she took the little frock in her hand, saying, "I suppose I shall ketch something, handling this thing, but I can't say no to you, for you are the image of your mother."
"Thank you, Betsy," said Rosa; "I hope I may be like my mother. You need not do the frock to-night; it will be time enough in the morning. The funeral is not till three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, and I can get Harty to take it down after school."
"I guess Master Harty will not be running for anybody," said Betsy to herself, as Rosa went up stairs; but she was wrong: Harty did go, and took with him, besides, a penny cake, that he had bought for Larry.
Rapidly, happily, the weeks flew by at Dr. Vale's cottage: there seemed to be a new spirit at work there. Lucy no longer looked sad and drooping: there was always a bright face to welcome her return from school, and some one to listen to her account of the occurrences of the day. If her lessons were difficult, Rosa was always ready to explain them, and to encourage her to more persevering study. By degrees, Lucy was learning to share all her feelings with her sister. Sometimes Rosa found these confidences rather tiresome, but she never checked them, as she Was anxious that Lucy should speak to her without restraint, that they might be able to talk freely on the most important of subjects.
Many of Lucy's fears seemed to have passed away without effort as she became more cheerful; others she had been enabled to conquer by Rosa's kind advice; but the great secret of the new courage that she seemed acquiring, was found in the few words, "God is with me, God loves me," which were seldom far from Lucy's mind.
At first she could not help feeling that when she had done wrong, God had ceased to love her. Then Rosa would read to her passages from the Bible where the Saviour speaks of having come to save sinners, and would remind her, again and again, that she was God's own child.
"God made you, my dear Lucy," she would frequently say; "and He loves everything that He has made, and 'would not that any of His little ones should perish.' Christ has died that you may be forgiven; He has promised to receive all that truly come unto Him; His child you were made in Baptism, and His child you are glad to be; then why should you fear?"
"It seems so strange that God is willing to forgive me so often," Lucy would reply, "I can hardly believe it."
"It is, indeed, most wonderful; but for Christ's sake His poor erring followers are received, if they truly repent," would Rosa answer.
"I wish I could be perfect in a minute," said Lucy, one day; "I get tired of trying."
"When Christ has done so much for us that wo may share His happy home in heaven, we ought to be willing to stay here as long as He pleases, and strive to follow His example. If we prayed more earnestly for God to assist us, we should find it easier to do right; for God gives His Holy Spirit freely to them that ask Him. If you can constantly remember that God is with you, you will soon learn to turn to Him when you are tempted," answered Rosa.
Lucy thought that Rosa had no trouble to do right always; but it was a mistake. Many times hasty words came to Rosa's lips, and unkind thoughts were offered to her mind; but they wore followed so quickly by the effort to subdue them, and the prayer for aid, that they never were made known to those around her.
Cold winter weather had come: it seemed to make Harty only the more full of life and spirits. When he came in from the keen air, there was always a bustle in the circle round the fire. Sometimes he would lay his cold hands suddenly on Lucy's neck, and shout with laughter as she shivered and drew away; sometimes Rosa's cheeks got rubbed with a snow-ball until they were redder than usual; and almost always the noisy fellow was reproved by Mrs. Maxwell for bringing in so much snow or mud on his boots.
Yet Rosa was learning to love her rough brother very dearly, and she even fancied she could see some improvement in him. After a long talk with his sister, he would be more gentle and quiet for a few days; but soon some trifle would throw him into a passion, and all his goodness departed. He was so accustomed to speaking rudely to Lucy, that he never thought of it afterwards; yet he was mortified when in his fits of passion he had been unkind to Rosa.
She never seemed to retain any remembrance of his fault, but was ready to meet him pleasantly again as soon as his bad humour had passed away.
He could not help admiring her noble spirit; and every day he felt more and more sure that there was some strength in the principles that could keep a high-spirited girl like Rosa uniformly gentle.
By degrees Harty took less pleasure in teasing Lucy, and more happiness in her society. She had followed Rosa's hints, and tried not to be vexed and hurt by trifles, and really was becoming more interesting as she grew more cheerful and talkative.
Dr. Vale was still obliged to be very much away from home, but the time that he could spend with his family he greatly enjoyed; and he often rejoiced that Rosa had been brought home to throw around her such an atmosphere of sunshine.
Even Mrs. Maxwell had relaxed a little from her stiffness: she occasionally allowed Rosa to put Harty's room in order at first, and finally she gave up that charge entirely to her. This arrangement prevented much disturbance, for Rosa handled carefully the veriest trash, which she knew had value in Harty's eyes; and there were no more broken cobwebs to put him out of temper.
Often, when Mrs. Maxwell was weary, she found a comfortable chair placed for her by the fire; when her eyes were painful at night, unasked, Rosa would read the daily paper aloud. Such trifling attentions were very grateful to the faithful housekeeper, and it soon became a favourite joke with Harty to call Rosa "Mrs. Maxwell's pet."
As regularly as Saturday came, little Judy appeared, leading Larry by the hand, for he was now nearly two years old, and a fine healthy boy.
Lucy often wished that she could stay in the room with Rosa and Judy, but the latter could never attend to her sewing while her little brother was in her presence. She was constantly stopping to bid him say, "Thank ye" to the lady, or shame him for running about as if he were as much at home as the ladies.
Lucy found it very easy to amuse Larry, and before long she grew fond of him, and looked forward with pleasure to his Saturday visit.
With Harty's consent, and Mrs. Maxwell's valuable assistance, some of his old clothes were "cut down" for Larry, and he was warmly dressed in a good great-coat and cap, that delighted him exceedingly, though Judy could not help laughing when she first saw him in them.
Judy learned much more than the use of the needle from Rosa. As she sat sewing, Rosa taught her many sweet hymns and passages from Scripture, and led her to look to her kind Heavenly Father as a friend who would "never leave nor forsake her."
The short winter days and the long winter evenings soon passed away. One bright spring morning Lucy was looking at the hyacinths that were blooming beside the cottage wall, when she heard a footstep, and, turning round, she saw a stranger standing beside her. Once she would have started away like a frightened bird; but now she did not think of herself, but waited politely until the stranger should announce his errand.
"The flowers are peeping forth again; I see you love them," he said, cheerfully; "and what a place this is for birds; I never heard such a twittering. Are there any robins in the old nest at the bottom of the garden?"
"Oh yes, they have come," answered Lucy, wondering who could know so well about the robin's nest.
"We ought to be friends, Lucy," continued the stranger's pleasant voice, "for I could hush you when you were a baby, when nobody else could make you stop crying. You were a fat little thing then, and you are not so very much heavier now." And he jumped the little girl high in the air.
Lucy by this time had made up her mind, that whoever the stranger might be, she liked him.
"Can it be uncle Gillette?" she had once thought to herself; but she immediately decided that it was not he, as she had always imagined him very stern, with large black eyes, and the stranger's face was mild and cheerful, and his eyes were of a soft hazel.
"I have more little friends in the house," said the gentleman, and with Lucy's hand in his, he entered the door. Rosa was half-way down stairs; she caught one glimpse of the stranger, and then gave a flying leap, which nearly brought her to his side.
"Oh! uncle Gillette, I am so glad to see you," she said, as he bent to kiss her, apparently as delighted as herself.
Harty came out to see what was the cause of all this commotion, and was greeted with a cordial shake of the hand, and the address, "I hope Harty has not forgotten his old playfellow, uncle Gillette."
The children thought their father welcomed their uncle somewhat coldly; but they changed their minds when they found that he had been expecting him for several days, and had accompanied him from the station to the gate.
Lucy had supposed that she should be very much afraid of Mr. Gillette, as she knew that he was very learned and good; but she found him as mild and simple as a little child, and she was most happy to take the low stool he placed for her at his side, and look into his pleasant face, while she listened to his conversation.
She was heartily sorry when she heard him say that he was to leave on Monday morning, for as it was Saturday, they would have but a short visit from him.
There was no settled clergyman at Chatford at this time, the rector being absent for the benefit of his health. On this account a long time had passed since the children of the parish had been catechised in the church. There was therefore no small bustle among the little people when it was announced on the Sunday morning after Mr. Gillette's arrival, that the children would be called upon to recite the Catechism that afternoon, immediately after the service.
There was much buzzing and studying at noon; and many a boy was astonished that he had forgotten what was once so familiar to him, in the long interval which had passed since the last catechising.
Even Lucy was glad to study over what she called the "long answers," although she never failed to repeat them with her brother and sister every Sunday evening. She did not dare to lay her Prayer Book aside until Rosa had patiently heard her say the whole Catechism, and pronounced it perfectly learned.
Many young hearts that had palpitated with fear at the idea of reciting to a stranger, were reassured when the Rev. Mr. Gillette arose after the Evening Service, and said, "The children may now come up to the chancel."
Without a thought that any one was observing her, Lucy stepped out and joined the throng of boys and girls that were moving up the aisle. Julia Staples was tittering in the pew behind, and Judy M'Grath was walking at her side; but she did not see either of them; she felt that she was in God's holy temple, and about to perform a solemn duty, and she inwardly prayed that she might be able to understand and improve by Mr. Gillette's explanations.
The children were allowed to recite together, and their voices joined in a full chorus, as they answered correctly all the questions of the Catechism. Glances of triumph and congratulation passed from eye to eye as they finished, or not once had they faltered, even in the most difficult parts.
"What is the Catechism?" asked Mr. Gillette.
"It is a preparation for Confirmation," answered one of the boys.
"You have all recited the Catechism perfectly; are you then prepared to be confirmed?" said Mr. Gillette.
There was no answer for a moment, and all looked confused; at length there was a faint "No."
"I fear not," continued Mr. Gillette: "how, then, must you say this Catechism before you are ready to be confirmed?"
"We must speak it from the heart," said Judy M'Grath.
Some of the boys smiled at her Irish accent, but one glance from Mr. Gillette sobered them.
"Right! When do you take upon yourselves the promises made for you by your sponsors in Baptism?" he asked.
"At Confirmation," several replied.
"True," said Mr. Gillette, "at Confirmation you take these promises publicly upon yourselves. I see many before me," said he, looking tenderly about him, "who are too young for Confirmation, but hardly a child who is not old enough to make those solemn promises to God in private, and strive earnestly to keep them. Do not wait, my dear children, until you are old enough to be confirmed, before you promise to love and obey the Saviour who has redeemed you. Your sponsors laid you as infants on His bosom; turn not from Him with your first feeble footsteps. You were made members of Christ at Baptism; ask God this day to help you to live as the lambs of His flock. If you commence now to strive to keep your baptismal promises, Confirmation will indeed be, as it ought, a strengthening of you in all that is good, an assistance in leading that holy life which becomes the children of God, the members of Christ, and the inheritors of the kingdom of heaven.
"Let me ask you once more, Do you not believe that you are bound to believe and do as your sponsors promised for you? Let me hear that answer again, and may God give you strength to speak it from the heart."
"Yes, verily, and by God's help so I will; and I heartily thank our Heavenly Father that He has called me to this state of salvation, through Jesus Christ our Lord," was heard from the throng around the chancel.
Even those who stood nearest to Lucy could hardly hear her voice; no human friend saw her uplifted eye; but God, who seeth all hearts, accepted the vow she made in His holy temple, and she felt more fully than she had ever done before, that she was indeed the child of God.
Lucy was not the only child who had listened earnestly to Mr. Gillette. It was the last time that he ever addressed those children; but there will be those at the resurrection who will thank him for the words he spoke that day: good resolutions were then roused in young hearts, which strengthened until they became strong principles, which supported through life, sustained in death, and were perfected in heaven.
All was changed at Dr. Vale's cottage on Monday noon: Mrs. Maxwell, Harty, and Lucy once more sat down to dinner by themselves. The doctor was with a distant patient, and Rosa had gone with Mr. Gillette, to pass a few days in the city.
Although Mr. Gillette had been with them so short a time, both Harty and Lucy were sorry to part with him; and they did not wonder at Rosa's strong attachment to their uncle.
Lucy felt very sad when it was first proposed that Rosa should leave home, although it was only for a few days; but she knew this was a selfish feeling, and struggled to overcome it. Early on Monday morning the packing of Rosa's trunk commenced. Lucy ran about to wait on her sister, and helped her in her preparations as cheerfully as if she herself were of the party; she even insisted upon lending her certain belts and ribbons which were the treasures of her wardrobe.
Harty was not up when the carriage came to the door; he had been called once, but had fallen asleep again. He thrust his tumbled head from the window, and bade his sister a hearty farewell as she drove from the door.
This little circumstance seemed to have put him in a bad humour for the day. He pushed away his plate at breakfast, declaring he would not eat a mouthful of such trash; although everything was very nice, and there were hot cakes, of which he was usually very fond. Notwithstanding Harty's ill-humours, he was a favourite with old Betsy, and she was always careful to send him up a good breakfast, even when he had been lazy.
At dinner, his temper did not seem to have improved. "How you do eat," he said to Lucy: "it takes away my appetite to see you stuff so. I will speak to father about it."
Poor Lucy looked up in surprise, for she was only quietly taking a moderate meal. Once she would have answered pettishly or begun to cry, but Rosa had taught her that a cheerful as well as a soft answer often turneth away wrath, and she smilingly replied, "Why, Harty, I shall not be a stout, rosy girl soon, unless I make good dinners. Do try some of this horse-radish, it will make you relish your dinner as well as I do."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Harty, impatiently, "you need not try so hard to be like Rosa: you can never hit it; you are as unlike as an acorn to an apple."
Lucy blushed, and was glad that Mrs. Maxwell spoke to her just then, for she was hurt by her brother's rudeness, and tempted to make a hasty reply.
Mrs. Maxwell wanted a certain apron for a pattern, and Lucy ran for it as soon as dinner was over, little thinking that even Mrs. Maxwell had learned something from Rosa, and had spoken to her at that moment to change the conversation.
Lucy really felt sorry to see Harty come into the dining-room after tea, as if he intended to spend the evening there, for the frown was on his brow. She was about to ask him why he did not go to see John Staples, when she remembered that Rosa had said that John was a bad companion, and that sisters ought to do everything to make their home pleasant, even when their brothers were cross and disagreeable; for boys were often led into temptation when out of the house, from which they were safe when at home.
With these thoughts in her mind Lucy laid aside a mark which she was working for Rosa, and which she was anxious to finish before her return, and went for the chequer-board.
"Don't you want to beat me?" she asked gently of Harty.
"It is so easy to do that, I don't care for it," was his reply.
The little girl was not discouraged; she took out her scrap-book and pictures, and the bottle of gum-arabic, and placed them on the table. She knew Harty would be sure to take an interest in some new engravings which one of the school-girls had that day given her.
A spirited engraving of a wild horse caught his eye, and he soon was engaged in looking over the addition to the old stock, and in advising Lucy where to paste them. One of the engravings he claimed as his own. Lucy knew perfectly that he was mistaken, but she gave it to him without a word; and when he laughed at her awkward way of using the brush, she joined in the laugh, holding up her sticky fingers in a comical way.
Presently Harty put his head on the table, and fell fast asleep.
"Harty must be unwell," said Mrs. Maxwell, as she roused him from his heavy sleep, and told him he had better go up to bed.
Grumbling at being waked, he disappeared, without saying Good night to anybody.
Rosa's room looked lonely and deserted to Lucy as she passed it that night; and she wondered, as she put the lamp down on her own little table, where her sister was, and what she was doing.
That pretty room was a different place to Lucy from what it once was. She did not think of looking for robbers now; she had given that up long ago; and when she looked out of the pleasant window, the stars seemed like spirits, that told her of the power of the great God, who was her friend. She had ceased to hear mysterious noises in the orchard; the stillness of the night was only disturbed by the twittering of some restless bird, or the waving of the tender leaves in the soft wind; but Lucy felt no fear as she looked out upon the quiet scene. Once she had been afraid of ghosts, and often feared at night to see some white figure rise before her; but since she had learned to love the ever-present, invisible God, she felt safe from all harm, whether from spirits or evil men. Lucy liked to be alone now, that she might think about the gentle Saviour who was ever with her. To that Saviour she spoke in sincere prayer that night. Her brother was not forgotten: she prayed that God might watch over him and make him truly good, and as she did so there was not a harsh feeling in her heart towards him, notwithstanding his unkindness during the day.
In the middle of the night Lucy woke suddenly: she did not long doubt as to what had roused her, for the rain was falling in torrents, and soon there was a heavy clap of thunder, at almost the same moment that the room was lit by the glare of lightning. Lucy lay very still: she could not help feeling that there was some danger, but she was calm and peaceful. "The lightning is in God's hand, my Father's hand," she thought. "He will take care of me;" and she was soon almost asleep again. A loud groan made her start up in bed and listen. It was repeated, and seemed to come from Harty's room. Without a thought but of alarm for her brother, she slipped on her shoes, and throwing her little wrapper about her, she ran to him.
"What is the matter, Harty?" film asked, as she stood by his side.
"Go away! they'll not get me; I know where to hide," he muttered.
"Wake up, Harty," said Lucy, "there's nobody trying to catch you."
The lightning lit the room, and she saw that her brother's eyes were wide open, and that his cheeks were flushed. She took his hand; it was burning hot: he snatched it from her, saying, "Let me go, John, you don't play fair."
"Don't you know me, brother?" said Lucy, leaning over him.
"Oh yes, Thomas; tell Betsy to bake me some cakes," was his reply.
Poor Lucy! what should she do? She did not like to leave her brother to call Mrs. Maxwell; yet something, she knew, ought to be done for him immediately. At length she thought to knock on the wall, and wake Mrs. Maxwell, as her room was next to Harty's.
"What, afraid again?" said Mrs. Maxwell, as she saw Lucy standing by her brother's bed.
A groan from Harty, and a few muttered words, immediately drew her attention to him.
"I told you he was ill last night; why, how hot he is! Harty, what ails you?" said Mrs. Maxwell in a breath.