MR. POWELL'S grasp was on the door handle, when his wife laid a detaining hand on his arm.
"Be sure and call at Ann Crompton's on your way to the office, dear," she said. "She may know 'of a suitable person to take Elizabeth's place, and whoever she recommends is certain to be trustworthy."
Mr. Powell promised, and went his way, feeling less bright than usual. The breakfast hour was generally one of the pleasantest of the day. His wife, of barely a year's standing, attended to his wants with a smiling face, and the food had a better relish, because seasoned by cheery conversation.
This morning there had been no such seasoning. Mrs. Powell's face was clouded over, and she did nothing but grumble and tell tales of her housekeeping troubles.
"Nobody is so worried as I am," she said. "Elizabeth suits to perfection, and may be trusted with untold gold. Mamma parted with her that she might come to me, knowing what such a servant would be to a young housekeeper. I have never given her a cross word, and now, after five years' service in the family, she has determined to leave, and at the worst possible time for me. Elizabeth says her mother cannot do without her, and she must go. Just as if a month or two could matter, when she has been ailing for years. I cannot leave Sarah in charge, she is too giddy; so everything will be upset. Your sisters must not count on our going to the seaside when they do; and most likely by the time I get suited with a servant in Elizabeth's place, the fine weather will be over, and our summer holiday lost. It is horribly selfish of Elizabeth."
Mr. Powell was sorry to see the clouds on his wife's pretty face, and to hear such a change in the tone of her voice. Besides, he could not agree with her. He would not, however, tell her so, or say that Elizabeth could hardly be called selfish for leaving an excellent place, where she had good wages and no anxiety, to go and nurse an ailing mother and take care of her father and the younger children in a cottage home.
He resolved to wait until the first feeling of annoyance was past, before attempting to reason with his wife, and in the meanwhile to send Ann Crompton to consult with her about a successor to Elizabeth.
"Old Ann," as everybody called her, was a cheerful body, much inclined to look at the best side of things and to help her neighbours to do likewise. She lived in a single room, in which was nothing that could well be spared, for the floor was bare, there were no hangings to the bed, only two wood-bottomed chairs, on one of which was placed a cushion, a tiny table, and a very small supply of hardware and crockery.
It might have been a palace, by the way Ann prized it and extolled its conveniences.
Somebody remarked that the bedstead was a poor one. Ann pointed out that it was better than it looked, having a sacking bottom, which was preferable to laths, being more elastic.
"The floor is bare, and must be cold to your feet," said another.
"I have a stool to put them on," said Ann, "and having nothing on it makes the floor easy to clean."
"You've only two chairs."
"There's always one for a visitor, and if two friends should come in at the same time, which doesn't often happen, there's the side of the bed for me to sit on."
"You have not two cups and saucers alike," said another neighbour.
"The tea tastes no worse for that, so long as the crockery is clean," replied Ann.
"You have not many pots and pans to scour," remarked a caller, who might have spent more time on her own with advantage to herself and them.
"I have enough for all the cooking that has to be done here," she answered. Then fearing that the words might sound like grumbling, she added: "And, thank God, I have never been without something. My bread has been given me, my water has been sure. And if my bits of things do not take me long to clean, I have all the more time to spend on the work that earns the bread."
Did somebody say, "How lonely it must be for you, living all by yourself!" Ann would answer, "There are folks within sound if not within sight. I have only to knock at the wall and somebody comes directly. My neighbours know that I never trouble them without a needs-be, and they're real kind. At nights, if I wake with my rheumatics and what not, I think to myself, 'I'm getting old and I cannot expect to be free from the infirmities that belong to age. But they will not be for long. There will be no aches nor pains, nor tired bones, nor sleepless nights in heaven. Nothing to cry for, except it be for gladness, and "God shall wipe away all tears."'"
"I cannot be lonely, for I remember that Jesus said, 'Lo I am with you alway,' and I feel sure those words were said to comfort an old disciple like me, as well as those others that saw Him in the flesh and heard His voice."
Old Ann was independent in her way. She knitted coarse stockings and did rough mending, and run odd lengths of print together for coverlets! She earned but little, and she suited her wants to her means, taking from others only what she could by no amount of industry earn for herself. Yet in time of sickness Ann never lacked a nurse, for her kindly loving nature had won her many friends, and children were ready to run for her and the elders to wait upon her, when the need arose for such neighbourly ministry.
Mrs. Powell's mother had often employed the old woman, and more than once Ann had recommended servants, who had turned out well, so it was not surprising that the young wife thought she might help her in this present difficulty.
Perhaps Mr. Powell thought she might do more good than in the matter of a servant, and he very willingly sent old Ann to have a talk with his wife.
"My husband has told you why I wished to see you, Ann, I suppose," said Mrs. Powell, when the old woman was shown into the breakfast-room.
"Not a word, ma'am. He said you would tell me," replied Ann, and then waited patiently for the story.
It ran rapidly from Mrs. Powell's lips, and the listener never interrupted her until she finished with the question, "Don't you think it is very selfish of Elizabeth?"
"Well, I can't say yes, ma'am," was the honest answer. "The girl has all to lose in the way of money, home, rest and comfort by leaving your service. But she will gain in another way. Her conscience will say she has done right in going to her sick mother, for God puts 'Honour the father and mother' next to the commandments that teach us our special duty to Himself."
"I thought you would like to help me, Ann; but you seem to think I am wrong, and you take Elizabeth's' side," said Mrs. Powell, rather sharply.
"I will help you if I can, ma'am. Nothing would please me better, though I cannot at this minute think of the right girl for you. And I can feel for you about going to the seaside, for I have just been disappointed of my own summer outing."
Mrs. Powell was interested at once, and reminded of her own want of consideration for Ann. She had missed the old woman for three weeks past, yet had never sent to ask after her until her own perplexity made her wish to see her. Since Ann's arrival she had been too full of her own concerns to inquire the reason why she had seen nothing of her for so long. She felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks as she said, "Have you been ill?"
"I'll tell you all about it, ma'am," replied Ann. "I belong to a Mothers' Class, and once a year we have a day's trip to the seaside. We reckon on it very much, for to most of us it is the only chance we have of feeling the sea breeze and seeing the waves come rolling in. We mostly have wonderful weather, and that day serves us to talk about till summer comes round again.
"This year I had my ticket and was as full of my coming holiday as a child thinking of a school feast. Would you believe it? The very night before, I slipped and sprained my ankle. My foot swelled up as big as two, and I couldn't put it on the ground. Then lumbago came on, and I couldn't turn myself in bed. I lay as helpless as a baby.
"It was a disappointment. I can't deny that, and I had very little money and not much in the way of victuals; no claim on anybody, and I was unable to wait on myself. Yes, I had a claim on God's promises, because I believed in Jesus, and I knew for His sake He would not fail to keep them. So I just put Him in mind of a few, and asked Him to help me, for He knew I couldn't help myself. I couldn't call my neighbour, for she was gone out washing very early. I was not quite sure that anybody would miss me till night, because the rest of the class members would go on by train, whether I was there or no. Some of them would be asking after me when they came back, but that would not be till half-past nine at night, because there was a two-hours' railway ride to be done before they arrived at the station, and then they would have to walk home."
"What did you do?" asked Mrs. Powell, for the moment forgetting her own worries in sympathy for her poor friend.
"Just nothing, ma'am, as I said before, and for the best of reasons. I couldn't turn over, or point a foot to the ground. I waited, feeling sure there would be something done for me, though I did not know what. I said to myself that if I could only see one or two folks and ways by whom help would come, the Lord could see plenty that I knew nothing about. I had not so much pain while I lay quite still. It was only when I moved that it was real bad, and you see I had nothing the matter with me in other ways, and I began to be hungry. For a good while I had to grin and abide by the hunger, as I had been forced to bear the pain, but at about twelve o'clock I heard some one knocking at the door.
"It was of no use to call out 'Come in,' because the door was locked, but I shouted, 'Please listen; I am fast in bed and cannot get up to let you in.' A voice, I knew whose it was, said back again, 'I am listening. Tell me how I can help you.' It was one of the ladies that conducted the class. She was not very strong, so did not go by the train, though she saw it start, and she had heard some of the neighbours wondering what had become of old Ann Crompton, for most of them knew how I had looked forward to my summer outing.
"The lady could not come my way at once after seeing the merry party off, for she had some shopping to do, and so she took my little place on her road home. I told her that if she would slide the window back she would find the door key on the sill, inside. I always put it there, so that if it happened I was ill my neighbour could find it and let herself in. I had no fear of robbers, and that's one of the advantages of being poor. Folks that have nothing worth stealing need not be afraid of thieves. The lady opened the window, for it slides easy. I take care of that, for it's no use giving needless trouble, and then she unlocked the door and found how I was fixed.
"With her own hands she lit the fire and got my breakfast ready. She gave me water and things to wash with, for I could manage that, and then she sent somebody else to tidy up and see to me until my next neighbour came home. Well, to cut a long story short, it is just wonderful to think how everything was managed for me. That lady had never called at my place before, and yet she was sent just when I was in the greatest need of help. When she could stay no longer, she took care that somebody else came. Before she left, she said to me, You know, Ann, that when any of our members are prevented from joining in the trip because of illness, we try to add to their comfort at home. So I will leave the price of your ticket with you. The money will not be lost, for we only pay for those who actually go.' She took the ticket and gave me half-a-crown at once, so there was I provided for and feeling quite rich directly. Now, wasn't that wonderful, ma'am? And yet it hardly seems right to call it so, because we ought to be looking for God's help in our time of need, if we really believe in Him."
Mrs. Powell's face showed the interest she felt in Ann's story. Its expression was entirely changed. The fretful, irritable look and manner were gone, and in place of them were words of sympathy, and the remark, "I wish you had sent to me, Ann. I would have come to see you and given you further help."
"I'm sure you would, ma'am; but the real truth is that all I wanted came without my asking anybody but my Father in heaven. The members of the class were very kind. First one, then another, would drop in and tidy up for me, and not a neighbour had a bit of anything nice for dinner but a portion would be sent for me. The lady that keeps the corner shop actually sent a wing of fowl and a slice of bacon one day. Another brought a drop of broth; then came some nice floury potatoes, and a sup of milk, and after that a morsel of cow-heel."
"What! all in one day?" asked Mrs. Powell, looking very much amused.
"Bless you, no, ma'am. One at once, and that was the wonderful part. These kind neighbours said nothing to each other, but day by day, just as I was getting to the end of my store, came something fresh from another hand. So I never wanted, and I never felt anxious. It would have been a shame if I had. I ought to tell you that, being able to use my hands, I kept on with my knitting and mending as well as I could, and was able to earn a trifle every day. By degrees I got to sit up, with my foot on the stool, but that was not very comfortable, because I got stiff; so a lady, the one that called first, lent me a proper rest,' and that was very nice. Now I can go about again, and I feel as if I couldn't be thankful enough to God for all His goodness, and to the friends He sent me for theirs. When I look back I think I was a bit like the widow that Elijah went to. She had only enough for one cake at the time they met, yet the barrel of meal did not waste through all the season of famine, and she and her son, and the visitor sent from God, never wanted bread. So I, though I never knew what hand would bring the next, finished the food that came on one day, and slept without fear that I should be left to hunger for more before a supply was sent. Now, ma'am, I have told you this long tale, and I'm afraid it has been very selfish of me taking up so much of your time when you have matters of your own to think of. But, if you believe me, it was the thought of all these mercies that filled my mind, so that it seemed as if I must tell you how good God has been to me, and how faithfully He keeps His word to the poorest old body that puts her trust in Him. I could not tell about Him and my kind neighbours without bringing in myself."
"I am very glad you have told me all this," said Mrs. Powell. "You have done me good. Now I shall ask you just to think over this matter of mine, and see if you can find a servant for me before Elizabeth's month is up. If I should have to give up my summer's outing, I hope I may brave the disappointment as bravely as you have done. You must stay and have a bit of dinner downstairs. Elizabeth you know already, and I should like Sarah to know you."
Ann thanked Mrs. Powell for her invitation, and, having dined with the servants, went home to think how she could help the lady out of her present difficulty.
"WHAT a dear old woman that is," exclaimed Mrs. Powell's younger servant, Sarah, when Ann Crompton had left the house. "It is nice to hear her talk. She makes one want to be good. If my mother had been more of her sort I should have been a better girl to-day."
"I thought you had a good mother," said Elizabeth.
"Well, she was good, in a way. She taught us to clean and scrub, she made us keep ourselves neat and mend our clothes, and such-like, and she scolded and slapped us into the bargain, with no light hand, if we wanted twice telling. We had to mind what she said, I can tell you. But she was very sharp in her words and ways. We got plenty of threats and not many promises, plenty of vinegar and little sugar. She took care we went to Sunday-school too, and, if we were a bit late, she sent us to bed again and kept us there all day. It was being driven to school and punished over it that made me determine I would never go another day after I got away from home. I should have been fond of it but for mother, and I liked my teacher, only I gave up because I liked having my own way better than anything else. It seemed nice to show mother that I was too old to be driven here and there, whether I wanted to go or not. I wish old Ann Crompton was coming to stop here. I believe she would make a better girl of me. She's so kind."
Truly kindness is a wonderful power. This wilful girl, whom her mistress could not trust, though she was cleanly, clever, and keen-witted, well able to do her work, and yet ready to evade orders just because, after a long course of driving, she found it pleasant to rebel—this girl felt that she could place herself like wax in the hands of the old, loving-hearted Christian, to be moulded into something better. She had not been used to think that she needed changing, but it was the seeing Ann Crompton as she was that first put into her mind the notion that her own ways might be improved.
And Mrs. Powell had not heard Ann's story in vain. The first to feel the effects of it on her mistress's mind was Elizabeth.
The girl had been a faithful servant. She was most unwilling to cause her mistress any trouble, but what could she do when the father wrote and begged that she would come to the suffering mother and neglected home?
Elizabeth half hoped that by telling Mrs. Powell why she felt bound to leave her service, the lady would be moved to dispense with the usual notice, and bid her go at once to those who had the first claim upon her. But no; instead of this, Mrs. Powell was annoyed at her wanting to go at all, and spoke little to Elizabeth, who now found it hard to please her.
The mistress was cold and curt; the maid sorrowful at heart, and full of anxious thoughts about her parents. Her looks showed that, for the first time, she found her work a burden, because of the heavy heart she carried as she went about it.
Whilst Ann Crompton was in the kitchen, she managed to speak some encouraging words to poor Elizabeth, and even to turn Sarah's saucy ways and ready jokes to some account.
"Bless you, child," she said, with a benevolent look at the girl's laughing face; "it's a good thing to enjoy a laugh now and then. I'm glad I haven't forgotten how to laugh yet, though I'm an old woman. Still 'Merry and wise' is a good motto. Folks sometimes laugh at wrong things. Mind, my dear, never you laugh if anybody tries to turn God's Word into a joke: put that sort of thing down, and have no friendship with those that do it. And don't you laugh at any joke that makes you feel 'shamed of having listened to it, and sends the hot colour into your cheeks, and forces you to turn away your head. We have to mind what sort of jokes we enjoy."
The warning words were said so pleasantly that they went home to Sarah's heart. Instead of "flying up," as she was wont to do at a sharp word from her mother, or the milder fault-finding of Mrs. Powell, the girl nodded her head assentingly, thanked Ann for her advice, and said, "I'll try to remember your rule. I have often felt vexed at myself for laughing at speeches that were not so very nice, when one came to look into them. I'm only a giddy thing, not like Elizabeth here, but I can bear to be spoken to when folks speak in the right way as you do."
The effect of Ann's story on Mrs. Powell was this: whilst the old woman was letting her humble light shine in the kitchen, the mistress of the house was on her knees seeking light and guidance from God.
She was feeling very much ashamed of herself. She had been calling her faithful servant "selfish," when the girl was giving up her own worldly interests at the call of filial duty. She had been fancying herself a very ill-used person, with more than her share of worries, just because there was a chance that her trip to the seaside might be deferred. She had made the morning meal uncomfortable to her good husband by her frowning face, her fretful words, her magnifying of a little molehill of trouble into a mountain. She had sent him away to meet his business cares, and the work belonging thereto, with the added weight of all her household difficulties as an extra burden.
Until she heard Ann's story she never thought of taking her domestic worries amongst the "all things" to the Throne of Grace. Never thought of asking that one of God's servants might be sent to fill the place that Elizabeth was about to leave.
Now, Mrs. Powell felt a longing to tell out her requests unto God, and the first prayer she offered was that her murmurings, fretful tempers, hasty judgments, and needless fault-finding might be forgiven. Next she prayed for grace to put away the spirit of selfishness that had made her consider only her own convenience, and that she might have a tender heart and the desire to bear the burdens of those around her, and so fulfil the law of Christ.
A little later Elizabeth was summoned by her mistress. She entered the room in some fear, for of late, no matter how much she tried, she had often failed to give satisfaction. But the kind look on Mrs. Powell's face encouraged her, and she could hardly believe her ears when her mistress said, "Elizabeth, I have been thinking about your wish to go home. I can understand how anxious you must be about your mother. Tell me plainly. Do you want to go to her at once?"
The girl burst into tears.
"O ma'am," she said, "you cannot think how grateful I should be if you could set me at liberty. I have been so miserable about poor mother, thinking that she is not getting the care and attention she needs. If she were to die I should never—"
The girl's voice was choked by sobs, and she was unable to finish the sentence, but Mrs. Powell guessed her meaning.
"Dry your tears, Elizabeth," she said, kindly. "You have been a faithful servant, and I do not wish to prove a hard mistress. You shall go home to-morrow."
"I shall be so glad!" cried the girl, her face brightening at the prospect. "Thank you so much, ma'am, for putting yourself to inconvenience for me. I do wish I could see some way whereby I could go without you having any trouble or being obliged to put off your journey; nothing but illness at home would make me think of leaving at such a time. And if I should be free to take a place again, and you could take me back without hurting any one else, I should be thankful to come."
"And I should be glad to have you, Elizabeth. Now I feel it would be wrong for me to stand in your way. Besides, I shall not be left without any one, and I can easily obtain daily assistance. We may have to put off our visit to the seaside, but never mind this. Go and pack your boxes. I hope you may find your mother better than you expect to do."
Elizabeth went quietly out of the room, but she hurried to the kitchen in order to tell her good news.
"I shall be sorry to lose you," said Sarah. "I'm not sure whether I shall—"
"Don't say you mean to give notice," interrupted Elizabeth. "Now don't. This is just the time when you might show what you can do, and be a comfort in the house. You are strong and able, and you know how work should be done, and I have heard the mistress say that if only—"
"If only you could have had patience to hear me out, you would have found that giving notice was one of the things farthest from my thoughts," said Sarah, in her independent way. "I know well enough what mistress has said. I've heard it often, and I don't want it over again. She has astonished me to-day. I had begun to think that she was one of those ladies who fancied servants ought to have no human feelings, no love nor longing after those they have left behind, and that love them, such as your poor mother. I had been saying to myself, 'If it had been the mistress's mother no train would have been quick enough to carry her to her old home. But as it is Elizabeth's, she must wait a month before she goes, get nothing but cross looks, and maybe find her mother dead or given up, when she gets there.'"
"Now don't you say another word," for Elizabeth seemed on the point of speaking. "You have interrupted me once, and I have done the same by you, so we are straight. But taking the words out of one another's mouths isn't good manners, for all that. Mark what I say now, and then go and pack up your things. The mistress has astonished me, and I'm going to astonish her. There! Mind if I don't find a way out of this seaside business that will make all straight." Sarah gave Elizabeth no chance of replying, but whisked out of the kitchen with a merry laugh.
"She might do so well, if only she would always keep right side out," thought Elizabeth, as she went upstairs to prepare for her journey on the morrow.
She understood Sarah better than most did, and felt hopeful about the girl, knowing that beneath her rough and ready manner and careless words, she hid deeper feelings, and might be influenced for good, by the kindness of which as a child she had experienced so small a share.
When Mr. Powell returned home he was agreeably surprised to notice the change that had taken place in his wife's looks during his absence.
No cloud upon the sweet bright face uplifted to his with a welcoming kiss. No trace of the fretful tone which had embittered her morning farewell.
She might know nothing of the little daily troubles which beset the paths both of young and old housekeepers, for she made no allusion to her own.
All through the dinner it was the same. As if to make up for the gloom which had hung over the breakfast-table, Mrs. Powell gave her husband a double portion of sunshine.
Instead of airing household matters, she asked questions about her husband's doings, and listened to all he had to tell with affectionate interest.
It was only when the meal was over, and the two were seated side by side, that Mr. Powell said:
"By the way, did old Ann come to see you? I did not forget your commission."
"Yes, dear, she came, and, without knowing it, taught me a lesson which I trust I shall never forget."
Mrs. Powell then repeated the old woman's story to her husband, and when she came to the end of it added, "I think I never saw myself in the same light before, as I did whilst Ann was speaking. The dear old woman's cheerful submission to what must have been a great disappointment; her patient waiting for the help which she felt sure God would send in answer to her prayer; her simple, childlike faith in His promises, as day by day she looked with confidence for daily bread; her contentment with the little portion of this world's goods which He had been pleased to allot to her; the finding good in whatever He chose to ordain for her, and her gratitude to the earthly friends who had ministered to her wants out of their little means;—all these things showed me how selfish, hard, and unkind I was towards my neighbours, as well as unthankful for the abounding blessings I enjoy. I had been cross and fretful because Elizabeth wanted to go to her sick mother, and had accused her of being selfish, when all the while I deserved the blame and she the praise. She preferred duty to ease and comfort without anxiety. Instead of cheering and encouraging her, I made the poor girl's task harder by my cold looks and fault-finding. Yet Elizabeth really cares for me, and is now grieving at the thought of causing me inconvenience.
"I grumbled because our seaside trip might be put off, and settled in my own mind that if it were we should have no fine weather later on. Thus I met sorrow half way.
"Ann Crompton bore the loss of her one day's trip—think, Edward, the only day's outing in all the year—without a murmur. Yet the morning which should have seen her on her way to the seaside, found her lying alone, helpless and in great pain, with an almost empty purse and cupboard, and with no claim of relationship on any human being near her. Yet in that little bare room she sunned herself in the light of God's presence and faithfulness, and waited for what He should send.
"I, who have so much, murmured and fretted and sent my dear kind husband away with the memory of my complaining words and clouded brow. She lay repeating to herself words of hope and encouragement, and willing to welcome with a smile the first friend who should enter for her relief.
"What do you think of these two pictures, Edward? Do you wonder that I feel ashamed of myself when I contrast my conduct with poor Ann Crompton's?"
"My darling," replied Mr. Powell, "I think I am a very happy husband, for I have a dear wife, who, though she does make mistakes, is not ashamed to learn wise lessons from a very humble teacher. Not ashamed either to own where she has done wrong, but thankful she may carry all her cares to One who careth for her, and will give her pardon, peace, strength, and guidance according to her need. And I think, too, that though I gave the message from you which brought old Ann to talk with you, surely God's Holy Spirit enabled her to speak and you to receive a message which has been as good seed, and has already brought forth good fruit."
Mr. Powell's loving arm had drawn his wife's head to his breast, and he bent and kissed her tenderly. After a little pause he asked what she had done about Elizabeth, and heard, with true pleasure, that the girl was to leave on the following morning.
"Then have you heard of some one to take her place?" asked Mr. Powell.
"Not yet, Edward. If I do not, or whether or no, I must follow Ann's example—pray for the right person and trust. Sarah is capable enough to fill a temporary gap, and I can get help in the daytime. Perhaps I may manage Sarah better if I try."
Mrs. Powell did not know what effect her kindness to Elizabeth had already produced on the more headstrong younger girl, and was a little surprised to notice with what energy she worked on the following morning.
She gave her an encouraging smile, and said, "I think you are trying to do double work, Sarah. I like to see this, because Elizabeth has many little matters to do before she goes, and I should not like her to be harassed and hurried."
"She has been very pleasant to live with, ma'am," replied Sarah, "and I can do anything for those that are kind to me."
Mrs. Powell smiled at the girl's earnestness, and did not forget her words. They were brought home to her mind still more by what Elizabeth said when she came to bid her mistress good-bye.
"If you will excuse me, ma'am, I should like to speak a word for Sarah. I do believe she wants to do right, and has made up her mind to keep her best side out, and deserve to be trusted. But she is a girl that has been too much driven and too seldom led, and she cannot do with driving. I think if you would encourage her and seem as if you trusted her, it would go a great way towards making her deserve your confidence."
"Thank you for the hint. I will not forget it. Now, good-bye, and I do hope you will be able to send me better news of your mother. I shall look for a line to tell me of your safe arrival."
Elizabeth's eyes were full of tears, but they were not all sorrowful ones. She was sorry to leave, but truly glad of the manner of parting with her mistress, for she said to herself, "It would have grieved me to see her look anything but kind and friendly." So cheered by encouraging words and pleasant looks, Sarah did wonders, and deserved the praise which Mrs. Powell was not slow to give.
Elizabeth's place was not filled, as it was most important that a reliable person should be left as joint-housekeeper with Sarah, and the right one had not been found. In three days the Powells ought to go to the seaside, or all their plans would need to be changed.
"You have been such a good trustworthy girl since Elizabeth left that I have no fear of leaving you, but you must have some person in the house with you," said Mrs. Powell to Sarah.
"I could do the work well enough," replied the girl; "and if there was just somebody in the house for company, perhaps we might have Elizabeth back by the time you and master want to come home."
"It is the 'somebody' I wish to find, Sarah," said Mrs. Powell.
"Do you think Ann Crompton would come herself, ma'am?" asked the girl.
There was a wistful look in Sarah's face which surprised her mistress. "Should you like to have Ann? I never thought of asking her, though I should be glad for her to come, because I scarcely thought you and she would get on together."
"I would rather have her than anybody else," said Sarah; and moved by something in Mrs. Powell's manner, the girl told her how she had been impressed by the words and ways of the cheerful old Christian, during the short time she spent in the kitchen.
"I have always thought since that day I should be better for hearing and seeing her, so if it will suit you, ma'am, please let her come."
Sarah little knew that the influence which had been felt by her in the kitchen had produced still greater effect upon her mistress in the parlour.
Ann, however, did come to be Sarah's companion for a month, and with the best results to all concerned. The change did her good, for Mrs. Powell's house being outside the town, the air in its neighbourhood was very different from that which Ann breathed in the little court where she usually passed her days. A month spent within hearing of the song of birds and the sight of fields, trees and flowers! Why, it seemed like heaven to old Ann Crompton.
"I lost a day's outing, and God has given me a whole month instead," she said, as, hour by hour, she thanked Him for His goodness to her.
She and the girl, so unlike her to begin with, became fast friends. Sarah learned her need of a Saviour by God's blessing on this old disciple's teaching, and having found Him in Jesus Christ, she is striving to follow the example of His most holy life. She has to fight many a battle with her headstrong temper and wilful habits, but she is cheered and encouraged by the friend who, though weak in body, is "strong in the Lord and in the power of His might."
And Sarah's hopes about Elizabeth have been fulfilled. The mother has been raised from her sick bed, and is once more able to attend to her family, and Mrs. Powell receives more devoted service than ever from the girl whom she joyfully welcomed back again, when, filial duty done, she could return to her place with a quiet conscience.
"IF you please, ma'am, you did not tell me how I was to set the table, so I did it mother's way."
The speaker was Mrs. Glover's new servant, a tidy-looking little maid, whose youth would have led any mistress to suppose that she had nearly everything to learn. But as Mrs. Glover glanced at the neatly-arranged breakfast-table she had a pleasant surprise. The most experienced waiting damsel could not have laid it more to her satisfaction.
She was going to praise the new servant in warm terms, but she paused before uttering the words which first came to mind, and only said, "It will do very nicely, Mary. Now bring in the kettle. Your master will be down directly."
Mrs. Glover, though a wife of not quite a year's standing, had already changed her one servant three times. She was beginning to talk as older mistresses do, about their domestics being the "plague of one's life," "necessary evils," and so on, and wishing she could do without altogether.
Ellen Dixon, the new girl, had entered on her duties the night before, and Mrs. Glover's was her first place. The lady had told her that she should be down early enough to show her how to lay the table for the eight o'clock breakfast. But she was not, and so the little maid had done her best, and her mistress was fain to own that the best was very neat indeed. She glanced round the room and thought how orderly it looked, and was going to say so. She paused, and instead of uttering further encouraging words, she bethought herself of past experiences, and of "new brooms," and only wished the present state of things might last.
Much to her surprise, things went on better as the little maid became more used to her place, and instead of having to teach, Mrs. Glover found herself a learner.
"Please, ma'am, where shall I find the dust-covers?" was Ellen's question when she was going to clean the grate in the best sitting-room.
"What do you mean, Ellen?"
Ellen blushed as if she had done wrong. "We had some old sheets like at home to put over our parlour things when the floor was swept and the grate raked. Mother said the things got more spoiled with brushing dust off than with using; so she patched some pieces of old stuff together to throw over them. They kept the dust off nicely. But we are forced to take care of our things. It was just mother's way."
"And a very good way, Ellen. We will have dust-sheets too," said Mrs. Glover, and the covers were soon ready.
Again the mistress noticed the care with which the fire was laid so as to last, and Ellen's economy in the matter of cinders. The girl looked pleased when her mistress said, "Ellen, you are the first servant I have had who took any trouble about making a fire to suit the weather. Often I have come down when it was bitterly cold, and there was scarcely a spark to be seen. Then, when the morning was warm, I have found a fire large enough to cook a family's dinner; and I always before found cinders thrown on the dust-heap; I am glad you have learned to take care of them."
"We had to be careful at home," said Ellen. "Mother used to make the coals last as long as she could, and she taught us to see if it was warm or cold before we made fire up. We learned to do it her way."
"That girl never has to go hunting about the house for things," said Mr. Glover, as he noticed the new girl's movements with much satisfaction. "Ask for what you may, if Ellen has had the handling of it, she never needs to seek it or keep any one waiting."
Mrs. Glover thought she might now safely say words of encouragement to Ellen, so she repeated her husband's commendation.
The girl's face brightened as she answered, "I am so glad master is pleased, and so will mother be when I tell her. She always told me if I put a thing in its place when I had done with it, I should find it there when it was wanted; that nothing wasted so much time as seeking for what ought not to have been lost."
"I am sure you must have a good mother, Ellen."
"Oh, dear yes, ma'am! But she was never good to us by letting us have all our own way, but by learning us her way. She said she could not give us any money, but she must try and make us servants that would be worth keeping. We didn't always like mother's way best," added Ellen, frankly, "because if we did not do our work according to her showing, we had to do it over again. But we learned in time, and it seems as if I couldn't get out of mother's way now."
"I would not try if I were you, Ellen," said. Mrs. Glover, with a kindly smile. "You are a fortunate girl in having had such a teacher in your mother."
Quarter-day came, and the little maid received her first wages. She looked at the two golden sovereigns with all the delight natural to one who has honestly earned what has been cheerfully paid.
"Let me see," she said, thinking aloud in her mistress's hearing. "One must go to mother. She did not want me to send her any of my wages, but I know she ought to have this and more, because it cost her a good bit to fit me out when I was coming."
"Can you spare so much, Ellen?" asked Mrs. Glover.
"Oh yes, ma'am. My things are not a bit worse; mother taught me to mend a hole when it is little. She says nothing grows faster than holes. Then there will be ten shillings to go in the savings bank," she continued, as if her calculations had not been interrupted.
"Why, Ellen, have you begun to save already?"
"Mother begun for us when we were very little," replied Ellen. "Not with much, but then it was a start. She could not lay by more than a copper or two at a time, but it got us in the way of taking care of pence. I always promised her that I would save something whenever I got my wages, and I would never buy a penn'orth unless I had a penny to pay for it with. 'Do that and you'll be rich,' mother said. 'Spend less than you earn, and pay for what you get, and you'll keep out of money troubles.'"
"Anything else in the business way?" asked Mrs. Glover, who was equally amused and interested in Ellen's doings, and who, to say the truth, was learning some important lessons from what the girl told about "mother's way."
Ellen blushed and hesitated, then said slowly, "Mother told me never to forget what I owed to God, and I promised that, besides saving a bit, I would always give a bit out of my wages, whether they were little or much."
Mrs. Glover did not ask what part was to be thus devoted, but she was well assured that it would be in fair proportion to the girl's means. She said a few encouraging words to her, promised to write and let Ellen's mother know how well her daughter practised the lessons she had taught her, and then she asked, "Is there anything you have to say to me? Are you quite satisfied in your place?"
There was plainly something that Ellen wished to say, for her cheeks turned first red, then white, and her eyes filled with tears. At last it came out—
"Oh, please, ma'am, at home father used to read a chapter and pray before we went to bed at nights. Mother did in the morning, because he had to go to work so soon. And we learned verses and hymns, and mother heard us say them; but now no one hears me, or talks about these things as mother did."
The girl stopped, afraid to say more. There was no need, for the lesson went home, and it was not the first on that particular quarter-day.
Mrs. Glover had not been very particular about paying for things as she got them. Love of pretty bonnets and dresses had induced her to spend just a trifle more than her income, and she found herself a little in debt. She had never considered that a portion of her means should be devoted to God's service; and as to family prayer, with just three or sometimes only two in the house, she had never dreamed of such a thing.
She began to ponder the words of her little maid. Then she went to her room, and though no human eye followed her, there was One who both saw and heard her tearful face and the prayer for pardon and guidance.
When her husband came home Mrs. Glover told him all that was in her heart, and how the new desires and resolutions had come there. He clasped her lovingly to his own, kissed away her tears, forgave the little extravagances into which she had been tempted, and said, "We will turn over a new leaf, darling, and we will do it at once."
So Ellen was called in to listen whilst the master read from God's Word and then prayed, pleading that they might have the blessing promised to the two or three gathered in His name. From that night master, mistress, and servant knelt together. Years passed on. Children were born in the house. Mr. Glover's means increased, and more servants were needed; but the one most trusted of all was Ellen Dixon.
"We should like you to have charge of the children next to ourselves," said Mr. and Mrs. Glover. "We know you will not teach them anything but what is right."
"They are our most precious treasures," said the mother, as she looked on her sleeping baby, and smiled as Ellen used the old familiar words.
"I have not had much to do with children lately, but I will do my best for the dear little things. I shall try and remember mother's way of managing them—" with which Mrs. Glover was quite content.
Mothers! you cannot tell how much good you may do by teaching your children wise lessons and leading them in the right way whilst they are young and willing to be guided by you.
Take care that in after-life, when they go out into the world, or are at the head of home of their own, they may never be able to say of any wrong habits, "I learned it of mother, it was mother's way;" but may your names be ever joined to happy memories of wise words, pious training, and a good example.