The Project Gutenberg eBook ofTimid LucyThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Timid LucyAuthor: Sarah S. BakerRelease date: August 3, 2022 [eBook #68677]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: John Morgan, 1862Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIMID LUCY ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Timid LucyAuthor: Sarah S. BakerRelease date: August 3, 2022 [eBook #68677]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: John Morgan, 1862Credits: Al Haines
Title: Timid Lucy
Author: Sarah S. Baker
Author: Sarah S. Baker
Release date: August 3, 2022 [eBook #68677]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: John Morgan, 1862
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIMID LUCY ***
LUCY AND BRADGET O'BRADYLUCY AND BRADGET O'BRADY
by
Sarah Schoonmaker Baker
"FEAR NOT, LITTLE FLOCK."
LONDON:JOHN MORGAN, 10, PATERNOSTER ROW.1862
LONDON:ROBERT K. BURT, PRINTER,HOLBORN HILL.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I.—The Little Bed-roomII.—The Thunder-showerIII.—The MedicineIV.—An AnnouncementV.—The ArrivalVI.—An AccidentVII.—Sunday MorningVIII.—Staying at HomeIX.—The King and his WeaponsX.—The Happy Sunday EveningXI.—Judy M'GrathXII.—The VisitorXIII.—SicknessXIV.—Conclusion
TIMID LUCY.
Dr. Vale had the prettiest house in all Chatford. It was a tasteful, white cottage, with a green lawn in front, and tall elm trees about it. The side windows looked out upon a pleasant orchard, where the smooth, ripe apples peeped temptingly from their beds of fresh leaves. At one of these windows there was a neat curtain, that was looped back one summer evening, while through the open casement there floated the perfume of the rose bush that had climbed the cottage wall, until its buds could look in at the upper window. A pretty sight there was within! the moonlight streamed on the floor, and lit up as sweet a little bed-room as any fairy could desire. The small counterpane and bureau-cover were white as snow, on the tiny work-table there was a vase of fresh flowers, and the miniature book-case was filled with an interesting collection of nicely-bound volumes. There was nothing wanting to give the apartment an air of perfect taste and comfort.
Did the young owner enjoy that pleasant room? Young she must have been, for everything, even to the low rocking-chair, was evidently prepared for the use of some favoured child.
Presently the door opened, but no one entered. Lucy Vale, the doctor's youngest daughter, stood timidly without. Surely there was nothing frightful in that quiet room? yet she did not venture in until the light was so steady that she could see plainly into its farthest corners. As soon, as she had locked the door behind her, she looked into the closet, behind the curtain, under the bed, and even under the bureau, where nothing thicker than a turtle could possibly have hidden itself.
There had not been a robbery in the peaceful village of Chatford in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, so there was no danger of Lucy's disturbing any villain in his hiding-place. If she had chanced to find the thief she seemed so earnestly seeking, she would have been in a most unfortunate position, as her bed-room door was locked, and, without any weapon, her feeble arm would have been but poor protection.
Children who never go to sleep without hunting for robbers, seldom think what they would do if they should at last succeed in finding one, nicely stowed away in a closet. Few thieves are so hardened as to injure a sleeping child, while the most cowardly might be led to strike a blow on being suddenly discovered, and placed in danger of punishment. After all, even if there were thieves in a house, the safest course for a child would be to go quietly to sleep, and leave the evil men to steal and depart.
Lucy Vale did not seem quite satisfied with her first search; again she furtively glanced about, before she sat down to read the chapter in the Bible, which she had been taught never to omit at night. Lucy read her Bible as a duty, not because she loved it, or wished to learn the will of God, and now she could not fix her attention at all upon its sacred pages.
She was hardly seated when a slight sound in the orchard attracted her notice; she jumped up and ran to the window. All was quiet in that peaceful scene, save the occasional dropping of the ripe fruit. The shadows of the leaves quivered in the moonlight in what seemed to her a mysterious manner; a strange feeling of fear stole over her; she did not return to the Bible, but having hastily undressed, she fell upon her knees for her evening prayer. Lucy would have thought it very wicked to go to sleep without what she called saying her prayers. In truth it was onlysayingthem, for while she repeated the solemn words, her thoughts were far away. Sometimes she would get so busily thinking of other things, that her lips would cease to move, and she would remain on her knees, buried in thought, for many minutes. As soon as she remembered why she was kneeling, she would hurry over the remainder of her prayers and go to bed, quite satisfied that she had done her duty.
On this particular evening her prayers were soon over, and she was quickly in bed, leaving the lamp burning; its light however was of but little use to her, as she thrust her head under the covering, hardly leaving space enough to breathe through.
If Mrs. Maxwell, the housekeeper, had known that Lucy kept her light burning at night, she would have scolded her severely, for she often said, "it was flying in the face of nature to try to make night like day, and for her part she thought it downright wicked to be wasting oil when everybody was asleep, to say nothing of the danger of fire."
Dr. Vale had lost his wife when Lucy was just six years old, and since that time Mrs. Maxwell had been his housekeeper; he trusted everything to her, and she seemed to take the greatest delight in being economical, that none of her master's substance might be wasted. She was not bad-tempered, but she had a stern, harsh manner, and was easily worried by children, only thinking them good when they were silent and stirred neither hand nor foot. Lucy seldom came near her without being blamed for something, or told to sit down and be quiet.
The little girl would have been quite lonely had it not been for her brother Hartwell, who was just two years older than herself. Lucy was now ten, but Hartwell seemed to think her a very little child, hardly fit to be his companion, yet he would sometimes permit her to play with him, and a dearly-bought pleasure it was. Harty, as he was generally called, was indolent; he could not bear to move about, and therefore found it very convenient to have Lucy to wait upon him. He never seemed to have thought his sister might not like running up and down stairs any better than he did. It was so easy when he wanted anything to tell Lucy to run for it, that sometimes he kept her little feet in such constant motion that at night she was quite tired out. If she ever complained, he told her, girls were made to wait on boys, and if she could not do such trifles for him she had better go to her doll-baby and not be about in his way. Lucy loved her brother, and liked to be near him, so she seldom refused to do what he asked her, although he often called her disobliging when she had been trying her best to please him.
Hartwell was very fond of teasing, and his poor little sister had to suffer for his amusement. Sometimes he would make her cry, by telling her that she was so ugly that it was painful to look at her; at others he would call her a coward, and run after her to put insects on her neck, or he would jump out from a dark corner and shout in her ear when she thought herself quite alone.
As you will conclude, Lucy did not lead a very happy life. Her father was so constantly occupied that he seldom took his meals with the family, and sometimes hardly spoke to his little daughter for days together. She had no one to whom she could talk freely; Mrs. Maxwell never listened to her, and her brother was so apt to laugh at what she said, that she did not dare to tell him many things that troubled her. She was naturally a timid child, but since her mother's death she had grown so bashful that she could hardly answer when a stranger spoke to her. Many of her childish fears, which a kind friend in the beginning could easily have banished, had become so strong that she lived in perpetual alarm.
About midnight Lucy was roused by a loud clap of thunder. The rain was dashing in through the open window, and the waning lamp seemed but a spark amid the almost incessant flashes of lightning. The poor child trembled with fear, she dared not close the window, and yet the flying drops almost reached her little bed. She lay in an agony of terror, thinking that every moment might be her last. The idea of death was horrible to her: in broad daylight, or when pleasantly occupied, she could forget that she must die; but any sudden fright would bring the solemn truth to her mind and fill her with distress. She had never heard Mrs. Maxwell or Harty speak of being afraid of death, and dared not mention her fear to them, and with her father she was so shy, that he knew very little of what was passing in her mind.
The many faults of which she had been guilty rose to her mind in that awful storm, and she resolved if her life were spared never to do wrong again. After making this resolution she felt a little comforted, and began to think what could be done about the window. She got up and took the lamp to go and call some one to her assistance. But whom should she call? "I will not disturb father," she said to herself, "he was so very tired last night; Harty will laugh at me for not doing it myself; and Mrs. Maxwell—I cannot wake her, she will be so very angry." Thus thinking, she stood irresolutely in the hall, starting at every flash of lightning, and afraid either to go forward or return. Just then Mrs. Maxwell opened her door: "What are you about there?" said she, with an astonished look at Lucy.
"Please, ma'am," said the little girl, who was really glad to see a human face, "will you shut my window?"
"Why in the name of wonder did not you shut it yourself?" was the response. Lucy was silent, and they entered the room, together. "A pretty piece of work!" said the neat housekeeper, holding tip both hands, as her eyes fell on the soaking carpet. She shut the window hastily, and then said to Lucy, "Come to my room, for it wouldn't be safe for any one to sleep in that damp place."
Lucy was so much afraid of Mrs. Maxwell, that it was quite a trial to be in the same bod with her; she crept close to the wall, not daring to go to sleep, lest she should be restless, and wake the stern woman at her side. She had many serious thoughts that night, and again and again resolved never more to do wrong.
Towards morning she had a pleasant nap, from which she was roused by the morning bell. The sun was shining cheerfully into the room, and the wild storm of the night seemed like a painful dream. She dressed herself carefully, and knelt to say her morning prayer, simple words which she had repeated a thousand times with as little thought as if they had been without sense or meaning. Those same words, spoken with earnest sincerity, would have called down a blessing from Him who loves to listen when children truly pray. Lucy had not forgotten her resolution to do right, but she trusted in her own feeble efforts.
A flush of pleasure lit the usually pale face of the little girl as she saw her father seated at the breakfast-table. She glided into the chair next him, and hardly ate anything, she was so busily occupied in watching his plate, and placing all he might need beside him. Harty, meanwhile, showed his delight in his father's company by being more talkative than usual. He had taken a long walk in the fresh morning air, and had many things to tell about what he had seen. What had interested him most was a tall tree, which the recent lightning had struck and splintered from the topmost bough to the root.
Lucy shuddered as the conversation brought the painful scene of the night afresh to her mind. It revived Mrs. Maxwell's memory also, for she turned to Lucy with a stern look, and said, "How came you with a light last night?"
Lucy blushed, and hastily answered, "I forgot to put it out when I went to bed."
"Careless child!" was Mrs. Maxwell's only reply; but nothing that she could have said would have made Lucy more unhappy than the fault she had just committed. What would she not have given, a few moments after, to recall those false words; but they had been spoken, and recorded in the book of God!
During breakfast Dr. Vale looked anxiously many times at the little girl at his side. There was nothing of cheerful childhood in her appearance; her slender figure was slightly bent, and her small face was pale and thin; her eyes were cast down, and she only occasionally looked up timidly from under the long lashes. Her little mouth was closed too tightly, and her whole expression was so sad and subdued, that he was truly troubled about it. It was plain to any one who looked at her that she was not happy.
The doctor dearly loved his children. Harty he could understand, but Lucy was a mystery to him. He felt certain that she loved him, for she never disobeyed him, and when he was with her she was sure to nestle at his side, and take his hand in hers; but she seldom talked to him, and was growing daily more silent and shy.
"Something must be done for her," he inwardly said. His thoughts were interrupted by Harty's calling out, "Why don't you eat something, Lucy? There, let me butter the baby some bread." Rude as this remark seemed, it was meant in kindness.
"I don't want anything, Harty," answered the sister. "Nonsense!" said he; "you are thin enough already: one of the boys asked me the other day, if my sister fed on broom-splinters, for she looked like one;" and the thoughtless boy gave a loud laugh.
It would have been much better for Lucy if she could have laughed too, but the tears filled her eyes, and she pettishly replied, "I should not care what I was, if it was only something that could not be laughed at."
At this Harty only shouted the louder. "Hush, Harty," said Dr. Vale; "for shame, to tease your sister. Don't mind him, Lucy," and he drew his arm tenderly around her. She laid her head on his lap, and cried bitterly. This kindness from her father would usually have made her quite happy, but now the falsehood she had first uttered made her feel so guilty that she could not bear his gentle manner. She longed to tell him all—her fault of the morning, her terror of the night before—all she had thought and suffered for so many weary days; but her lips would not move, and she only continued to sob. A ring at the bell called the father away, or she might have gained courage to open her heart to him. If Lucy could have been more with him, she would have found a friend who would have listened to all her little trials, and given her the truest consolation and advice. It was a source of sorrow to Dr. Vale that he could be so little with his family, and on this particular morning he felt it with unusual force.
"My little daughter is going on badly," he said to himself, as he entered his chaise, to make his round of visits. "The child is losing all her spirits; she needs a different companion from Harty; he is too boisterous, too much of a tease for my little flower. Mrs. Maxwell is not the person to make a child cheerful; I must have Rosa at home." The doctor was prompt to act when he had fixed upon a plan, and that day a letter was written to his eldest daughter, recalling her home. For three years before her mother's death, and since that time, Rosa had been under the care of her uncle, the Rev. Mr. Gillette. This gentleman had been obliged by ill-health to give up the exercise of his holy profession, but he did not cease to devote himself to his Master's cause. He received a few young ladies into his family, whose education he conducted with all the earnestness of a father. His chief aim was to lead his pupils in the pleasant paths of virtue, and make them to know and love the Lord. Rosa, as the child of his departed sister, had been peculiarly dear to him; he had spared no pains in moulding her character, and was now beginning to see the fruits of his labour in the daily improvement of his attractive niece. To Rosa, then, whom we shall soon know better, the doctor's letter was immediately sent.
Lucy, meanwhile, had no idea of the change that was soon to take place in her home. She passed a sad day, for the remembrance of the untruth she had spoken hung about her like a dark cloud. She had been taught that a lie was hateful to God, and sure to bring punishment. Mrs. Maxwell had made it a part of her duty to hear Lucy recite the Catechism every Sunday. These were trying times to the little girl, for the eye of the questioner was constantly fixed upon her; and if she failed or faltered in one of the long answers, she was sent to her room to study there until she could go through the part without hesitation. Mrs. Maxwell generally closed the Sunday evening exercise by telling Lucy how dreadful a thing it was to be a bad child, and that God saw her every moment, and would punish every wicked act she committed. From these conversations Lucy would go away in tears, resolved never to do wrong again; but these resolutions soon passed from her mind, until recalled by some fright or by the lesson of the next Sunday evening.
She only thought of God as an awful Judge, who would take delight in punishing her, and was far happier when she could forget Him.
The morning light streamed pleasantly into Lucy's pretty room, and there was the little girl quite dressed, and moving about as busily as Mrs. Maxwell herself. She had been up since the dew-drops began to sparkle in the sunlight. She could not make up her mind to confess her fault to her father or Mrs. Maxwell, but she was determined to be so very good as to quite make up for it. In the first place, she would put her room in order; that would please Mrs. Maxwell.
With a tremendous effort she turned her little bed, and then spread up the clothes with the greatest care. It was her first attempt in that way, and not very successful, but she was quite satisfied with it, and walked about surveying it as if it had been a masterpiece of housewifery.
The doctor was again at the breakfast-table, and he was pleased to see his little daughter looking so much more cheerful. Harty, as usual, was in excellent spirits; but his father's rebuke was still fresh in his mind, and he refrained from teasing his sister, and contented himself with telling funny stories about school occurrences, until even Mrs. Maxwell was forced to laugh.
As they rose from the table, Dr. Vale handed Lucy a small parcel, saying, "Take good care of this, my dear, and leave it at Mrs. Tappan's on your way to school; it is some medicine for her, which she will need at ten o'clock. I have a long ride to take in another direction, so good morning, my little mouse." Having kissed her affectionately, he jumped into his chaise, and was soon out of sight.
Lucy was unusually happy when she started for school; Harty had not teased her, Mrs. Maxwell had not found fault with her, and her father had trusted her with something to do for him.
The summer sky was clear above her, and her feet made not a sound as she tripped over the soft grass. The wild rose bushes offered her a sweet bouquet, and she plucked a cluster of buds as she passed. In the pleasure of that bright morning, Lucy forgot her good resolutions. She did not think of her kind Heavenly Father while enjoying His beautiful world. Fear alone brought Him to her mind: she remembered Him in the storm, but forgot Him in the sunshine.
Lucy was soon at Mrs. Tappan's gate, and was raising the latch, when the large house-dog came down the walk and stood directly in the way. She thought he looked very fierce, and did not dare to pass him. She walked on a short distance and then came back, hoping he would be gone; but no, he had not moved an inch. While she was doubting what to do, the school-bell rang; thrusting the parcel into her pocket, she hurried on, saying to herself, "As it is so late, I am sure father will not blame me."
She was hardly seated in school, however, before she began to be troubled about what she had done. "Perhaps Mrs. Tappan was very ill," she thought; the shutters were all closed, and her father had called there twice the day before, and had already seen her that morning. With such thoughts in her mind, of course Lucy did not learn her lesson; although she held the book in her hand, and seemed to have her eyes fixed upon it. When she was called up to recite, she blundered, hesitated, and utterly failed. The tears now filled her eyes. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it yet wanted a quarter of ten.
"Please, Miss Parker, may I go home?" she asked.
"Are you unwell?" asked the teacher, kindly.
"No," murmured Lucy.
"Then go to your seat," said Miss Parker, a little sternly; "and never ask me again to let you go home unless you have a good reason."
"I wouldn't mind her, she's as cross as she can be," whispered Julia Staples, as she took her seat at Lucy's side.
Lucy knew Miss Parker was not cross, yet she felt a little comforted by Julia's seeming interested in her trouble, and placed her hand in hers under the desk, as if to thank her new friend; for Julia Staples had seldom spoken to her before.
Wearily the hours of school passed away. At last the clock struck one, and the children were dismissed. Lucy was hurrying off, when Julia Staples called after her to wait, for she was going that way. Lucy did not like to be disobliging, and therefore stood still until her companion was quite ready.
"I hate school, don't you?" said Julia, as they walked along.
Now Lucy did not hate school, she generally found it very pleasant; but she thought it would seem childish to say so to a large girl like Julia Staples; so she answered, rather awkwardly, "Yes, I did not like it to-day."
"I can't bear Miss Parker," continued Julia, "she's so partial; I know you don't like her, from the way you looked at her this morning."
Lucy did like Miss Parker, for she had often drawn the little girl to her side, and spoken very tenderly to her, more tenderly than any one had done since her own mother's death, and she was therefore glad that they came that moment to the road which led to Julia's home, for there they must part.
"Good morning," said Julia, not waiting for an answer; "I shall call for you to-morrow," and Lucy went on her way alone. She had been almost led to speak unkindly of a person she really loved, because she was afraid to say boldly what was in her mind.
As she came in sight of Mrs. Tappan's quiet house, she saw her father coming out of the gate, looking thoughtfully on the ground. He did not see her, and she had to run very fast to overtake him before he got into his chaise.
"Father! dear father!" she said, "do stop a minute; is Mrs. Tappan very ill? Do not be angry with me, here is the medicine."
The doctor looked quite serious while Lucy told him of her fright in the morning, and her sorrow after she reached school at not having delivered the medicine. The dreaded dog was standing within the gate while they were talking without; the doctor called him and made Lucy look into his mild eye and pat him gently. "You see, my dear," said the father, as the hand of the little girl rested on the head of the quiet animal, "that you need not have been afraid of Rover. You should have remembered that in not delivering the medicine you might be doing more harm to another than the dog would have done to you. Even after you were at school, all might have been well if you had had the courage to tell the whole truth to your teacher; she would certainly have excused you. I cannot say what will be the consequence of your foolish timidity. Mrs. Tappan is very ill!"
As her father spoke these words, Lucy's tears fell fast. Not another syllable was spoken until they reached home. Harty came out to meet them, calling out to his sister, "Are those red eyes the sign of bad lessons?" She made him no reply, but hastened to her room to think on her own folly, and poor Mrs. Tappan.
It was a long afternoon to the little girl; her dinner was sent to her, and she remained alone until dark. This was the day which had commenced so pleasantly, and in which Lucy had intended to please everybody. Alas! the poor child had not asked God's help to enable her to do her duty, nor had she been faithful in her own exertions.
When the tea-bell rang, she hastened down stairs, hoping to hear from her father good news about Mrs. Tappan, but he did not appear. Harty seeing his sister look so unhappy, forbore to tease her, and the meal passed over in silence. Eight o'clock came, and Mrs. Maxwell gave Lucy her light, and told her to go to bed. She did not dare to ask to sit up a little longer, for she knew the request would not be granted. Feeling like a criminal, the little girl went to her room—that pretty room, how many unhappy hours she had passed there! but none more wretched than on that evening.
In vain she tried to sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes, the form of the sick woman would rise before her, and she could almost fancy she heard her groans. Nine o'clock struck, and ten, yet Lucy was awake. About eleven she heard the street-door open; then there was a careful step upon the stairs, and some one moved towards the doctor's room. She was out of bed in an instant, and hastening towards the door. It was locked as usual, and before she could open it, her father had passed. She almost flew along the passage, and sought his arm as he was entering his room. He clasped her to his breast and kissed her tenderly, saying at the same time, what she so much wished to hear, "Thank God, Mrs. Tappan is out of danger. You ought to be very grateful," he continued, "my dear child, that your fault has led to no evil; I trust that this will teach you not to let childish fears lead you to neglect your duty!" Much relieved she returned to her own room, but no thanks were uplifted from her young heart to Him who had been pleased to spare the stroke of death.
All the family at the cottage were awake at sunrise the next morning, and there was an unusual bustle throughout the house. Mrs. Maxwell was flying about with a duster in her hand, giving her orders to the servants, and working twice as busily as any of them. The large room opposite to Lucy's was open, and being put in thorough order. This room had been occupied by Lucy's mother during her illness, and had been kept closed since her death. It had always seemed a gloomy place to the little girl; she had peeped in when the door chanced to be open to air the apartment. Now it was undergoing an entire change; the shutters, so long fastened, were thrown back, and muslin curtains fluttered in the morning breeze; neat covers had been placed on the dark bureau and table; and on the latter Mrs. Maxwell was placing a large India work-box that had belonged to Mrs. Vale, and which Lucy had not seen since she was a very little child.
Before going down to breakfast, she stepped in to see the pleasant change more closely; she was startled by meeting a mild glance from a sweet face on the wall. It was her mamma's portrait that looked thus gently upon her, and she almost expected the kind face to bend down to kiss her, as it had been wont to do when that dear mamma was alive. Lucy had never seen this picture before, and she could not help wondering where it had come from, and why it was placed there, where none of the family could see it. Indeed, she was thoroughly puzzled to understand what could be the cause of all this commotion in the usually quiet house.
Mrs. Maxwell poured out coffee in silence, and Lucy asked no questions; but before they rose from the table, Harty came bounding into the room, crying, "Guess who is coming here, Lucy."
"Isn't it cousin Jack?" asked Lucy, almost sighing to think what a life she should lead with the two boys to tease her.
"Guess again," said Harty; and she did guess all the aunts, cousins, and friends that had ever been to make them a visit, but in vain. When Harty had enjoyed her curiosity long enough, he said, "Well, Miss Mouse" (a name he often called her), "sister Rosa is coming home to live, and she is to tell us what to do, and be like a little mother for us! That's what father told me."
Lucy did not know whether to be glad or sorry at this news; she had not seen her sister for many years, and perhaps she might be afraid of her, and perhaps Rosa might not care for such a little girl as herself, even younger than Harty.
The excited boy was in a state of great delight, and he talked to Lucy until she quite entered into his feelings. "Won't it be nice," he said, "to have Rosa at home? I shall offer her my arm when she goes to church, and lead you with the other hand. I shall lend her my 'Swiss Family Robinson;' I mean to put it in her room, that she may read it whenever she pleases. But she need not attempt to make me mind her, for I sha'n't do it; I am not going to have any girl set over me!"
"Oh, fie! Harty!" said Lucy, "to speak so of sister Rosa before you have seen her."
"Before I have seen her!" repeated Harty; "I remember her perfectly; I have not forgotten how I used to play—she was my horse—and drive her round the house; you were only a little baby then."
"Not so very little," answered Lucy, pettishly, for her brother had made her feel as if it were a disgrace to be young.
While they were talking, Julia Staples called to walk with her to school. Lucy soon told her all about her sister's expected return.
"I should not think you would like it!" said Julia; "she'll want the nicest of everything for herself, and make you wait on her, as if you were her servant."
Before they reached the school-house, Lucy was quite sure that Rosa's coming would make her unhappy. Julia Staples had been talking with little thought, but she had roused evil feelings in Lucy's mind which were strangers there. She was not naturally envious, but now her heart burned at the idea that her sister would always be praised, and go out with her father, while she would be left at home with no one to care for her. Children do not think enough of the harm they may do each other by idle conversation. Julia might have encouraged Lucy in feeling kindly towards her expected sister, and have made her look forward to the meeting with pleasure; but she filled her mind with wicked, envious thoughts.
Do my young friends ever think whether they have roused wrong feelings in their companions? Two children can hardly talk together for half an hour without having some influence over each other, for good or for evil. The wrong thought that you have planted in the heart of a child may strengthen, and lead her to do some very wicked thing when you have forgotten the conversation.
A traveller once took some seeds of a very valuable plant with him on a journey. From time to time he cast them in the fields as he passed, and when he was far away they sprang up and were a great blessing to the people who owned the fields. A wicked traveller might have scattered the seeds of poisonous plants, which would have grown up to bring sickness and death to all who partook of them. Our life is like a journey, and whenever we talk with the people around us, we cast some seeds in their hearts, those which may spring up to bless them, or those which may cause them sin and sorrow.
"Your sister is to be here at ten o'clock, and you must be ready to receive her," said Mrs. Maxwell to Lucy, a few days after the occurrences related in the last chapter.
"Shall I put on my white frock?" asked Lucy.
"Nonsense! child," was the reply; "isn't your sister to see you every day, from morning to night, in whatever you happen to have on? Go, get a clean apron, and make your hair smooth, that is all the dressing that little girls need."
This idea did not suit Lucy, for she was very anxious that her sister should love her, and she thought if she were prettily dressed at first, she would be more likely to do so. As she looked in the glass while arranging her hair, she thought she never had seemed quite so ugly. The fact was, she was beginning to have a fretful expression, which was spoiling her face. Lucy had never heard that scowls must in time become wrinkles. She was not at all pleased with her simple appearance, but there seemed no way for her to wear any ornament, not even a hair ribbon, for her soft light curls were cut so closely, that they could only lie like her waxen doll's, in golden rings about her head.
Lucy was fond of dress, and she would have liked to wear jewellery to school, as many of the scholars did, but Mrs. Maxwell never allowed it. The little girl had a bracelet of her mother's hair, and this she, one morning, clasped on her arm under her apron, to be worn on the outside after she reached school, where Mrs. Maxwell could not see it. As she stopped on the road to change it, there came a sudden pang into her heart—she was deceiving, and with the gift of her dead mother; perhaps that dear mother could see her now, she thought; and hastily putting down her sleeve, she hurried to school.
Though the bracelet was not displayed, and no one around her knew that she wore it, she felt guilty and unhappy until it was restored to the box in which it was usually kept. The remembrance of that day checked her this morning, as she was about to place on her slender finger a ring which had been her mother's, and in her child-like dress, she went down to wait for her sister.
She found Harty at the front window, but by no means in a fit condition to give Rosa a welcome, for his face had not been washed since breakfast, and his dark curls were, as usual, in wild confusion.
"Here comes Miss Prim!" he shouted, as Lucy entered, "as neat as a new pin. For my part, I don't intend to dress up for Rosa; she'll have to see me this way, and she may as well get used to it at once. I do wish she'd come, I am tired of waiting; the clock struck ten five minutes ago. Hurrah! there's the carriage!" he cried, and was out of the room in an instant.
Lucy longed to follow, but she seemed fastened to her chair; there she sat, looking anxiously out of the window, as the carriage entered the yard and drove up to the door.
Her father got out first, and then gave his hand to a tall, slender girl, who sprang with one leap to the stops, and was locked in Harty's rough embrace.
"But where is little Lucy?" she asked, when Harty had ceased to smother her with kisses.
The voice was kind and cheerful, and Lucy stepped forward, hanging her head, and timidly putting out her hand.
Rosa overlooked the little hand, and clasped the bashful child tenderly in her arms.
Tears came in Lucy's eyes, she could not tell why—not because she was unhappy, for she felt sure she should love her sister.
"God bless you, my children!" said Dr. Vale, "may you be happy together. Rosa, you must be a second mother to our little one. Lucy, show your sister her room; I must leave you now; I must not neglect my patients, even to enjoy seeing my children once more together." So saying, he drove from the door.
Rosa's room had no gloomy associations to her, for she had not been at home at the time of her mother's death, and she only remembered it as the spot where she had enjoyed much sweet conversation with that dear mother, now, she trusted, a saint in heaven.
As her eyes fell on the truthful picture of that lost friend, they were dimmed by natural tears, which were soon wiped away, for why should she weep for one whose pure spirit was at rest?
Rosa was a Christian; not that she never did wrong, but it was her chief wish to do right. She had just been confirmed, and felt most anxious to do something to serve the Saviour, whose follower she had professed herself to be. When she received her father's letter recalling her home, she found it hard to obey, for she had been so long at her uncle's, that it was a severe trial to leave his family circle, and to lose his advice, which she knew she should so much need, to keep her true to the promises which she had now taken upon herself. Mr. Gillette, with gentle firmness, pointed out to his niece that it was her plain duty to return unhesitatingly to her father's house.
"You wish, dear Rosa," he said, "to be a true follower of the Saviour, and to do something for His cause. Go home to your brother and sister, strive by example and kind advice to lead their young hearts to Him who will repay all their love. But be careful, my child, while you are striving for the good of others, not to neglect your own character. Be yourself all that you wish to make them!"
Rosa had returned with a true desire to be of service to Lucy and Harty, and she had many plans for their welfare. Just now she longed to be alone for a few moments, that she might thank her Heavenly Father for His protecting care during the journey, and ask His blessing on her new home.
Her first impulse was to send the children away, but she checked it, and made them quite happy by allowing them to assist her in unpacking. Lucy handled everything very carefully, but Harty made Rosa tremble, by his way of tumbling over her collars and ribbons.
At last, all was unpacked but the little box of books, which Harty insisted on opening himself. "Run, get my hatchet," he said to Lucy, who willingly brought it.
"This is too small to work with," said the eager boy, after a few moments' exertion, "get me the large hatchet, Lucy."
Lucy again obeyed; but her brother spoke not a word of thanks when she came back, breathless with running. This rudeness did not escape Rosa, although she hoped it was only occasioned by her brother's anxiety to oblige her, and was not his usual manner.
The obstinate nails at last came out, and all the party sat down on the floor, and began taking out the books. Harty looked at the titles one after the other, and threw them aside with disappointment; at length he said, impatiently, "Are they all as sober as sermons? I should think you were going to be a parson, Rosa."
"Not exactly!" said she, with a merry laugh, "but you must not be surprised if I preach a little sometimes. Then you don't like my books; I am sorry for that, but I hope we shall have a great deal of pleasure in reading them together, by-and-by."
"Not I," answered Harty; "I like stories about shipwrecks and great soldiers, and strange and wonderful things."
"Then here is a book which ought to please you," said Rosa, laying her hands on the beautiful Bible which had been Mr. Gillette's parting gift. "Do you not love to read it?"
Harty hung his head, and answered, "There are no nice stories in the Bible."
"No nice stories in the Bible!" said Rosa. She turned the leaves rapidly, and began to read the story of Gideon. At first, Harty looked very indifferent; but she read in a clear voice, and animated manner, and by degrees he dropped the books which lay on his lap, and leaned his head on his hands, in rapt attention. When she came to the attack on the camp of the Midianites, he was ready to join the shout, "The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!"
"Where is it? where is it?" asked Harty, when Rosa had finished, "I want to look at it myself."
She pointed to the place, and promised to find him many more interesting stories, that they could read together.
Lucy meanwhile had crept close to Rosa's side, and laid her hand upon her lap. "And there is something to interest you, too, Lucy," said Rosa: "here is the Prodigal Son, let me read it to you."
"Do! do! sister Rosa," said both of the children. She needed no urging, and read the short and beautiful parable with real feeling.
Harty felt touched, he knew not why, but with an effort to look unconcerned, he asked, abruptly, "What does it mean, Rosa?"
"It teaches us many sweet lessons, dear Harty," answered Rosa; "I cannot well explain them all to you, but I know that it is to make us understand that God loves us as the father loved his wandering son. Did you notice that he knew the Prodigal when he was afar off, and ran to meet him? So God sees when we wish to do right, though nobody about us may guess it, and He is ready to welcome us to His love. Is it not strange that the Holy God should love us so tenderly?"
Harty looked wearied, and did not reply. Lucy tried to speak, but she was almost weeping, and her lips would not move.
"Come, we must not talk any more," said Rosa, cheerfully. "See how the things are all lying about. Harty, can you take the box away for me?"
He started off, with a sense of relief, and Rosa was left alone with her little sister. She kissed the child gently, and said, "You must tell me, some time, why those tears come so quickly; I want to know all that troubles you, and be your friend."
Lucy only replied by placing her hand in that of her sister. Harty now returned, and they all went to work busily, and soon arranged the books on the shelves of the bookcase.
"Come, Rosa," said Harty, "I want to show you my room, and to take you down in the orchard;" and he seized her rather forcibly by the hand.
The room was still in confusion, and Rosa would have preferred to stay and see her things nicely put away, but she contented herself with closing one or two of the drawers, and then followed her eager brother. Lucy silently went with them, keeping close to her sister's side, now and then looking half-lovingly, half-wistfully, into Rosa's cheerful face.
Harty's room was a curiosity shop, filled with all kinds of odd things that he had gathered together. Mrs. Maxwell and he had been for a long time at war about the birds' nests, nuts, shells, stones, &c., that he was constantly bringing to the house, and leaving about to her great annoyance. On several occasions she threw away his carefully collected treasures, and at last, the young gentleman, in great displeasure, went to his father and asked, "if he might not be allowed, at least in his own room, to keep anything valuable that he found in his walks." His father consented, and after that his room became a perfect museum. Stuffed birds, squirrel-skins, and crooked sticks were ranged on his mantel-piece, in a kind of order, and the chest of drawers was covered with similar specimens.
From time to time, Mrs. Maxwell came herself to dust among them, though Harty was sure to complain after such visits that his treasures had been greatly injured. On this particular morning Mrs. Maxwell had been thoroughly dusting, on account of the expected arrival, and as Harty entered the room he darted from Rosa, and carefully taking from the shelf some twigs, with bits of spiders' web attached to thorn, he angrily exclaimed, "Old Maxwell has been here, I know! I wish she would let my things alone! the hateful thing! See here, Rosa, this was a beautiful web, as perfect as it could be; I brought it only yesterday morning, when it was all strung with dew-drops, and now look at it! Isn't it enough to make any one angry?"
Rosa looked sorrowfully at her brother, and made no reply for a moment; at length she answered: "Dear Harty, you can find another spider's web; but angry words once spoken can never be taken back. Won't you show me what you have here, and forget your trouble?"
The hasty boy was soon engaged in explaining what all the queer-looking things were, and why he valued them. In some of them Rosa was much interested: she had never seen a titmouse's nest before, and as she took the curious home in her hand, she thought of the kind Heavenly Father who had taught those little creatures to build it with such skill, and had watched the nestlings from the time they left the shell, until they flew lightly away on their fluttering wings.
"What can you be thinking about?" said Harty, as she looked earnestly at the pretty thing.
"Pleasant thoughts," said Rosa, smiling, as she took from his hand a huge beetle.
Lucy wondered to see her sister take what seemed to her such a frightful thing so calmly in her hand. "There now! I like that!" shouted Harty, "she handles it like a boy. There's Lucy, she screams if I put such a thing near her, if it has been dead a month. Isn't she a goose?"
Lucy looked anxiously at Rosa, fearing she would say something unkind.
"Oh! yes, she is a little goose," was the reply, "but such a dear little goose, that I am sure I shall love her very much. We must teach her not to be afraid of trifles."
The timid child clasped Rosa's hand more closely, and inwardly resolved to try to please her sister in everything. She even touched with the tip of her finger a snake-skin from which she had always shrunk before, as she heard Harty and Rosa admiring it, while they handled it freely.
Some of the specimens which Harty seemed to think very precious were uninteresting to Rosa, and some were even disgusting; but she looked at all, and tried to discover the beauties which Harty so eagerly pointed out.
Her uncle had taught her that politeness is a Christian duty, and to be always shown, even to nearest relatives, and to those younger than ourselves.
Harty was delighted, and slapped Rosa on the back in token of his pleasure. "You are a glorious girl!" said Harty; "why, if that had been Lucy, she would have cried, and said I always hurt her."
"You forget," said Rosa, "that Lucy is a delicate little girl; you cannot play with her as you would with a boy. You must take care of her, as the knights of old guarded their ladye-love, and handle her as carefully as you would a bird's nest."
At this Harty laughed, and Lucy smiled.
"Now for the orchard," cried Harty; and away he ran, pulling the girls so rapidly along that they could hardly keep from falling down stairs.
A pleasant place was that orchard; the grass was fresh and short, and some of the branches of the old trees bent almost to the ground. Under these Harty had placed wooden seats, and there it was his delight to study. Very little studying he accomplished, though, for his eye wandered at one moment to a ripe apple on the topmost bough, and the next to a curious insect that was creeping on the trunk near him.
Rosa placed herself on the rustic seat, and looked upward through the waving branches to the clear blue sky above, and a half smile came over her face, that Harty did not understand. He did not guess that the sweet scene was filling the heart of his sister with love to the great Creator. Nor did Lucy understand her any better; but the expression on her sister's countenance made her warm with love towards her.
Harty soon grew restless, and engaged his companions for a race. Away they flew over the soft grass, and Rosa was the first to reach the fence, which had been agreed upon as the goal; Lucy came next, while Harty, puffing and panting, brought up the rear.
"I declare that was not fair," he began; "we did not start together."
"Never mind," said Rosa; "we girls ought to be the fastest runners, for that is all we can do in danger. Girls run, while boys must stand and defend themselves and their sisters."
This view of the case suited Harty, and reconciled him to his defeat; and they continued chatting amicably in the orchard and piazza until the bell rang for them to prepare for dinner. As they entered the house, Mrs. Maxwell met them, and looking sternly at Rosa, she said, "I hoped you were going to set a good example, Miss Rosa, to these careless children, but there I found your room all in confusion, while you were out running races. Your father has reckoned without his host, if he looks to you to make them particular."
Rosa knew that it had cost her an effort to leave the room in that condition, and that she had done so to please her brother. She did not defend herself, however, for she now saw that it would have been better to make him wait a few moments. Hastening up stairs, she soon found a place for everything, and put everything in its place, and as she did so, she resolved not to let her anxiety to win the affection of her brother and sister lead her astray.
Dr. Vale looked very happy, when he sat down to dinner with his family about him. He was pleased with Rosa's easy, cheerful manner, and delighted to see Lucy's face lighted with smiles, and Harty doing his best to act the gentleman. And acting it was, for anything like politeness was far from being habitual with him.
When they rose from the table, Dr. Vale led his eldest daughter to her room, and entering it, closed the door. The doctor walked towards the portrait, and gazed at it a few moments in silence, then, turning to Rosa, he said, with some emotion, "You do not, I fear, remember your mother distinctly, my child. I have had this life-like image of your mother placed where it will be ever near you, that it may remind you of the part that you must act to the dear children. May God bless and assist you in your task: pray earnestly to Him to watch over you and guide you, and you cannot fail. And now, dearest, never think me cold nor stern, when I am silent. My professional cares often weigh so heavily upon me that I notice but little what is passing around me; but nothing can so absorb my mind as to make me indifferent to the welfare of my children. Come to me with all that troubles you, and you shall find a father's heart, though perhaps a faltering tongue."
The doctor pressed his daughter to his bosom, kissed her forehead, and left the room. As soon as he had gone, Rosa fell on her knees to implore the God of all good to strengthen her for the great task that was before her, and to enable her to make herself such an example as the children might safely follow.
In about half an hour there was a gentle tap at Rosa's door. It was Lucy, who entered timidly, and going towards Rosa, said, blushing, "Don't mind Mrs. Maxwell, dear; she often speaks in that way to me, when she don't mean anything."
"Mind her! No and yes: she will not worry me; but I shall be glad to have some one to make me remember to be neat at all times. Where's Harty?" said Rosa.
"He's getting ready to go to the woods: he wants you to go with him."
"With all my heart," answered Rosa. "Are we to go now?"
"Yes, as soon as we can put on our bonnets," said Lucy, as she went to her room, to get her things. She put on a pair of thin slippers, although she knew they were to cross a damp meadow, for she could not make up her mind to wear the thick boots that were so much more suitable. Lucy had certain articles of dress which it gave her great pleasure to wear, and these shoes were among the favourites. Many a cold and sore-throat they had cost her, but her vanity was not overcome even by such consequences.
Hand in hand the three children walked merrily along, chatting as pleasantly as if they had not been parted for years.
Rosa and Harty declared that they liked to step on the soft meadow, that it was like a rich carpet that yielded to their feet. Their shoes were so thick that they did not feel the dampness, and they had no idea how uncomfortable Lucy was, in her thin slippers, thoroughly soaked with the moisture. They soon entered the woods, where the tall trees grew so close together that they almost shut out the pleasant sunlight. Here Rosa found so much to admire that she was constantly exclaiming with delight. She had not lived in the country since her childhood, and there was a charm in everything that met her eyes. Sometimes she was struck with new beauties, and sometimes she was reminded of by-gone days.
"Do you remember, Harty," she said, "how we came here together, when you were a little bit of a boy, and made a house under that tree for my doll to lie in? And have you forgotten, when we where gathering chestnuts just here, and I found I had lost my shawl, and how we hunted, and found it at last hanging on the fence by the meadow?"
Harty remembered these and many other occasions when he had enjoyed rambles with his sister; and they continued calling the past to mind, until poor Lucy felt quite sad that she knew nothing of what caused them so much pleasure. She grew silent, and at last withdrew her hand from Rosa, as she thought, "Yes, it will be as Julia Staples said, Harty and Rosa will go together, and not care for me."
The sun was just setting when they drew near home on their return. They had taken a long walk, but Lucy had not recovered her spirits, although Rosa, perceiving that she was not happy, had done all in her power to amuse her. Lucy felt half inclined to laugh and enjoy herself occasionally, but then the wicked, jealous thought would come up in her mind, and she grew sober again, and coldly answered her sister's cheerful remarks.
They had walked through the woods quite round to the back of the house, and were almost to the pleasant orchard, when they came to a wide brook, which they must cross to reach the by-path that led to the house. A single plank was placed across the stream. Harty ran gaily over, and went up the hill on the other side without looking behind him.
"Let me lead you over," said Rosa, kindly offering her hand to her little sister.
"I had rather go by myself," answered Lucy, sullenly, and placed her foot on the plank. She walked tremblingly on until she was half over, then the plank shook a little, and she grew frightened, swayed from side to side, lost her balance, and fell into the brook.
Lucy's shriek attracted the attention of Harty, who was by this time some distance up the hill, and he hastened towards her; but she had scarcely sunk in the water before Rosa had leaped from the bank and caught her in her arms.
The stream was rapid, and the fearless girl could hardly have kept her footing had she not caught hold of the plank above with one hand, while with the other she carried the half-fainting Lucy.
They reached the opposite side in safety, and Harty was there to assist them in climbing the bank. Great tears stood in his eyes, not from fright for Lucy, but from admiration of Rosa's courage.
"You are a sister worth having!" were his first words. "How I wish you were a boy!"
Poor Lucy, what pain these words gave her! Although she had been in such danger, Harty only thought of Rosa!
The true-hearted sister, meanwhile, was lifting her thoughts in thankfulness to Him who had enabled her to save the life of the child.
Lucy was too weak to walk home, and Rosa and Harty formed a lady-chair with their arms, and carried her safely up the hill, Rosa laughing at their ridiculous appearance in their wet clothing, for she had plunged into the stream up to her neck.
"Here we are! all safe and sound!" shouted Harty, as Mrs. Maxwell came out to meet the strange-looking party.
"A pretty-looking set you are! Do not come into the house in that condition!" was Mrs. Maxwell's reply. "Pray where have you been?" she continued: "I wonder if we are to have such doings all the time."
Rosa gently but firmly replied, that Lucy had been in great danger, and she thought she ought to be undressed immediately, and placed in a warm bed.
There was something in Rosa's quiet, dignified manner that awed Mrs. Maxwell: she came forward and took Lucy from their arms without another word, while Rosa hastened to her room to put herself in order to wait upon her sister. In a few moments she was neatly dressed, and standing by Lucy's bedside.
Dr. Vale had returned, and having heard from Harty an account of the matter, was soon with his little daughter. He ordered a warm draught to be administered, and said he did not think she needed any other medicine, as she seemed not to be really injured, only much agitated by the fright.
He kissed the little girl tenderly as he thought how near he had been to losing his pet, and greatly praised Rosa's promptness and courage in saving her from the death with which she was threatened.
Lucy could not thank her sister, for she felt guilty, as she remembered the unkind, suspicious thoughts that were in her mind when the accident happened. She shuddered at the idea that she might have died while her spirit was so unfit to go into the presence of the holy God. She felt that she had been very wicked, and she could not believe that God would pardon her.
"I know I shall be very ill," she said to herself, "because I was so naughty, and perhaps I shall die, and then nobody would care, and Harty and Rosa would be just as happy."
This last thought checked her half-formed resolution to tell her sister of her wrong feelings; and she turned away from the kind face that was bending down to her, and said, "I wish you would go away, I had rather be alone."
Rosa did go, but only to the door of her own room that was opposite: there she placed her chair, that she might be near, if Lucy should be lonely or want anything, little thinking what was in her sister's heart.
Lucy lay very still all the evening. Rosa thought she was sleeping, and did not disturb her. During those long, dark hours, Rosa was not sad. She had many pleasant thoughts. She liked to be alone, sometimes, for then she could more fully realize that God was with her.
Nine o'clock came, yet Rosa did not like to leave her sister: often during the evening she had stolen to her side to see if she were still sleeping. Once she stooped and kissed her; then Lucy longed to throw her arms around the neck of the kind watcher, and say that she had not been asleep; but something kept her silent.
At ten, the doctor came in. Rosa stole softly down stairs and told him how quiet the little girl had been during the evening. "But, dear father," she said, "I do not like to leave her alone to-night. May I not lay her in my bed, where I shall be sure to know if she wakes, and wants anything?"
"Certainly, dear," was the father's reply, "and I will carry her myself, carefully, that she may not wake. She is too heavy for you to lift, though you did take her so nobly through the water, my darling."
The doctor took the little girl gently in his arms; she did not seem to be awake, but oh! how guilty she felt all the time, to think that she had cherished harsh feelings towards one who wished to be so kind to her; and ashamed she felt that she was even then deceiving; but she had not the courage to open her eyes and say that it was all pretence. Rosa covered her very carefully, and placed her head comfortably on the pillow, and then began to move about noiselessly, preparing for the night.
Lucy was just closing her eyes, thinking her bed-fellow was about to lie down beside her, when Rosa threw her wrapper round her, and taking her small Bible, sat down to read. She did not once raise her eyes or move, while she was reading, yet Lucy could see that her expression changed from time to time, as if she was very much interested. There was a sweet peacefulness on her countenance as she closed the book, and Lucy resolved to open at the mark the next morning, that she might read herself what had had so pleasant an effect.
She then looked up and saw that Rosa was kneeling, with her eyes raised, and praying earnestly in a low voice. Lucy was almost startled, Rosa seemed so really to be speaking to some one, and she involuntarily looked about to see if there were any one in the room.
She had been so long accustomed to merely prayers herself, that she had almost forgotten that prayer is always speaking to God.
By degrees she rose in the bed and leaned eagerly forward to catch the words, which were scarcely audible as she lay on the pillow.
She heard her sister earnestly ask pardon for the sins she had just been confessing, while she thanked her Heavenly Father with the confidence of a child for His free forgiveness; and then she prayed, oh, how earnestly! that God would enable her to watch over her brother and sister, and lead them to the dear Saviour, the only source of real happiness, and for whose sake she knew all her petitions would be granted. Before she rose, she begged to be enabled to remember that the Saviour was beside her, through the dark night to preserve her from all harm.
As Rosa finished her prayer, Lucy sank down in the bed, overcome with awe. God was really in the room; Rosa had spoken to Him, and seemed to know that He had heard her. What must His pure eye have seen in her own heart! how much that was wrong! Could He forgive? In a few moments the light was extinguished, and Rosa was at her sister's side. She lay very still at first, that she might not waken the sleeper, but very soon a little hand was laid in hers, and Lucy gently whispered, "Dear Rosa, do you really think the Saviour is near us?"
Rosa was startled to find her companion awake; but she took the little hand instantly, and said, "Yes, dear Lucy, He is with us always."
"Doesn't it make you afraid," said Lucy, "to think so?"
"Afraid to think He is near us, dearest! Why, He is our best friend! Do not you love Him, Lucy?"
Lucy began to sob, and said, at last, that it always frightened her to think about such things, and she never did, unless something reminded her that she must die.
"My dear little sister," said Rosa, "God loves you: you need not be afraid of Him, if you really wish to please Him."
"But I can't please Him, I can't do right," sobbed Lucy.
"I know you cannot," Rosa replied, "but He will forgive you for Jesus' sake, and help you, if you ask Him."
"But I forget all about it," said Lucy.
"It is very hard to remember at first, that God is always with you, and you are trying to be His child. I know, dear Lucy, that you must wish to love and serve the kind Heavenly Father who has done so much for you: begin to-night; ask Him to make you His child, and to take care of you."
Lucy made no answer, but in silence she did as her sister had advised, and God who seeth all hearts received and answered her simple petition.
The few words that Rosa had said, dwelt in her mind. "God loves you," she thought, again and again, as she lay in her quiet bed; and when her eyes closed in sleep, it was with the remembrance that the God who loved her was near to watch over her.
Sunday morning came, and the sun was fairly risen before either of the little girls was awake. Rosa was the first to open her eyes: she would willingly have taken another nap, but the first stanza of a morning hymn occurred to her mind, and she remembered her resolution to overcome her laziness.
As she repeated—
"Awake, my soul, and with the sunThy daily course of duty run,Shake off dull sloth, and early riseTo pay thy morning sacrifice,"
she got up very carefully that she might not rouse her sister. "I will let the child sleep a little longer," she said to herself, "for she is so pale, I don't believe she is quite well."
It was a beautiful morning: the fields and orchards were bright with the sunshine, and the birds seemed singing even more happily than usual. As soon as Rosa had dressed herself, and finished her usual devotions, she went down stairs to enjoy the fresh air. As she walked in the garden, the conversation she had had with Lucy the evening before passed through her mind. What her uncle had said to her about being useful to her own family seemed about to be realized. "Poor little Lucy," she thought: "may God help me to lead the dear child in the right path."
Harty heard Rosa's footsteps in the garden, and was soon at her side. "Here, brother, is something for your museum," was her greeting, and she pointed to a chrysalis which hung on a low rose-twig by the path. "Is it not beautiful? Just look at the silver spots!"
"It is a capital specimen," answered Harty, as he carefully broke the little branch to which it was fastened: "I wonder what kind of a butterfly it will be. Rosa!" he added, "I did not think you would like such things as these."
"Not like the beautiful things God has made!" exclaimed Rosa. "Why, I love to look at every little object in nature, and think that our Heavenly Father planned it and made it so perfect. It seems easy to believe that He notices all our little joys and troubles, when wo see that even the smallest insect is made with such care."
As Rosa spoke, her eyes sparkled and she looked around her, as if every object which was in sight was a proof to her of the love of the kind Creator. Harty made no answer, but looked thoughtfully at the chrysalis as they entered the house together.
The breakfast-bell was ringing, and they met Lucy in the hall. She glanced slyly towards her sister, remembering the conversation of the evening before. Rosa kissed her cordially, and, hand in hand, they went to the table.
"Perhaps Miss Rosa had bettor pour out coffee," said Mrs. Maxwell stiffly to the doctor, as the children came in.
"Would you like it, Rosa?" asked her father.
Rosa saw that Mrs. Maxwell looked displeased, and, in a moment, it passed through her mind, that perhaps she would not like to give up the place she had held so long to one so young as herself, and she quickly said,—
"May I put that off a little longer, father? I am afraid I could not suit you as well as Mrs. Maxwell does; she has made tea for you a great while."
"A long time, dear child," said the doctor; and his thoughts went back to the days when his delicate wife sat opposite him, her sweet face growing paler each morning, until at last her weak hands could no longer do their office, and Mrs. Maxwell took her place.
Rosa knew of what her father must be thinking, and she did not speak for several minutes. At length she said, "Is old Mr. Packard any better to-day, father?"
"I have not seen him yet," was the reply. "I shall have to make a round of visits this morning," continued the doctor, "so I shall not have the pleasure of taking my tall daughter to church to-day: I leave that to Harty."
Harty looked very proud at the idea of waiting on his sister. Little Lucy listened in vain to hear something said about her forming one of the party. She resolved, at least, to get ready, and perhaps no one would object to her going.
When they rose from the breakfast-table, Rosa went to her room, thinking she should have a quiet hour to herself before it was time to prepare for church; but Lucy and Harty followed her. The rules had been very strict at Mr. Gillette's: the young ladies seldom, visited each other in their bed-rooms, and then never entered without knocking.
The freedom with which her sister went in and out of her apartment was already an annoyance to Rosa, and her first impulse was to send them away, that she might read her Bible alone, as she had intended. Then her confirmation vow came to her remembrance. She had promised "to love her neighbour as herself, to do unto others as she would they should do unto her." Would she like to be sent away from a person she loved? and was it not a part of her duty to make those around her happy? Her first impulse was conquered, and she turned cheerfully to the children, who felt uncomfortable for a moment, they hardly knew why, and said, "Come, let us sit here by the window; I am going to read, and you shall listen to me, if you please."