Ñåìåðî äî÷åðåé, 5-10 ãëàâà

CHAPTER V.


An awesome quiet settled over the house. I did not remember a time
when any one had ever been very sick. The children gathered in groups,
and spoke in whispers, and for a day or two Stuart appeared almost
conscience-stricken. But his natural flow of spirits could not be
repressed. Yet his laugh jarred on my nerves. We were used to caring
so much for each other’s welfare and comfort, and sympathizing with
sorrows or trivial illnesses, that his carelessness seemed to us as
something quite dreadful. Yet he was so pleasant and good-natured, so
ready to do anything that was asked of him, though he never appeared to
think that he might volunteer any little service.

“We must make some allowance for them,” mamma said, in her kindly
fashion. “Remember that they have had no mother. Much of their lives
has been spent at school; and their uncle was a cold and rather
arrogant man, papa thinks. So they have had no chance to acquire the
graces of home life.”

When the tidings became noised abroad through the village, we were
quite besieged. Mamma threw up the fortifications at the hall door.
The old women, who were curious, or anxious, or even kindly-hearted
in their officious way, heard all of the story there, or in the
sitting-room, that it was necessary for them to know. Aunt Letty
Perkins was not last nor least.

“Was it true, as she had understood, that these two young men came
to study with Mr. Endicott? She heard they were going in college,
or something or other. She hoped he would get well paid for his
trouble—young college chaps were always pretty wild. There was no great
loss without some small gain; and if this young fellow was sick, he
couldn’t be kitin’ round the village into all sorts of mischief.”

“No, to be sure not,” returned mamma, with a smile at this sort of
comfort.

“But what _are_ you to do? You have your hands full already, with such
a houseful of children! I allers say that Mis’ Endicott’s the most
wonderful woman I know. I should think you’d a been worn out long ago;
and here you haven’t scarcely a wrinkle in your face!”

“I do not know why people should wrinkle up their faces when they
have a number of healthy, happy children about them. Why, they keep
you young, Mrs. Perkins. It takes you back to your own childhood
continually.”

“I hope you’re a going to get paid for all this.”

“I do not believe the Duncans will become chargeable to the parish,
since they have fortunes of their own,” said mamma, rather dryly.

“Rich, now? Well, that’s good! Though rich men’s sons are exposed to
sights of temptations. No one knows!” and Aunt Letty shook her head
solemnly.

“I fancy there will not be many here at Wachusett.”

“Mean to keep them the whole year?”

“No; only through vacation.”

“They have gardeens, I s’pose?”

“Mr. Endicott is their sole guardian now, with the exception of an
elder brother, who acts for them.”

“O!”

Then Aunt Letty fidgeted about.

“If you should want some one to help do the nussin’, I could take my
knitting and sit up stairs. I haven’t much of anything to do, and I’d
as lief.”

“No,” said mamma. “I am much obliged. Mrs. Whitcomb is coming over this
evening.”

So Aunt Letty had to go away without seeing the patient. But she had
considerable news to sow broadcast, which comforted her.

For the first two days I spent all my time in the sick room, while papa
remained at night. The violent paroxysms were not very long at a time,
and for the rest he only tumbled about and wanted a drink every few
moments. Then Mrs. Whitcomb arrived, and I was partly released.

By Saturday Dr. Hawley had nearly given up the faintest hope. Every one
knew who was meant when the prayer for the sick was used on Sunday.
Something in papa’s voice touched me in a peculiar manner. In the great
calm of earth and sky, it seemed so strange that any life should go out
into utter nothingness! Why, the smallest insects were on the wing, and
birds and bees went humming and soaring, with no anxious cares, just
brim full of glad, free life.

If we had been less engrossed, we should have felt quite elated over
Fanny’s successful examination; but, as it was, we were glad to have
her at home, without thinking much about it. So the days passed until
the quivering life seemed to hang by a mere thread.

“If he can go through the next twelve hours!” said Dr. Hawley, in a low
tone. “But there seems so little strength to him. I can’t realize that
he has ever been such a rosy, rollicking boy as that Stuart; and yet I
do not see why he should not have been. Well, we have done our best,
Mrs. Whitcomb, and the good parson has prayed; so we must leave all the
rest in God’s hands. Don’t let him sleep more than an hour at a time,
and then give him a teaspoonful of this, out of the glass—remember.”

I didn’t want to go to bed. I crept up to the room, and Mrs. Whitcomb,
and the other strange, uncertain presence, standing by the window
and watching the great stars and the little flecks of silver cloud
threading their way in and out like dainty ladies. I was so afraid of
death, too! and yet I wanted to stay. I thought of Stephen’s perplexity
concerning his brothers, and did not wonder at it now. I was sorry that
I had been so ungracious that night; but I had made all the amends I
could. And I prayed softly for the sick boy, that he might live to a
better and less selfish life, that he might see and know the great
things there are for men to do in the world.

Twelve. The old eight-day clock in the hall told it off in a solemn
way, and went on ticking “forever, never,” and Mrs. Whitcomb breathed
in her chair as if she were asleep; but in a moment she rose and gave
the medicine.

“You had better lie down here on the couch, Rose. Here is a pillow.”

“No; I am not sleepy.” And crossing my arms on the window sill, I
rested my chin on them, and watched the stars again.

One, two, three; and the summer night began to show signs of
drowsiness. The stars grew dimmer, and there was a peculiar grayish
duskiness in the heavens. Then a faint stirring in the east, a melting
of the gray into rose and gold, a piping of birds in the leafy trees,
and a strange tremulousness in all the air. I turned away from the
window and glanced at the pallid face, put my fingers on the thin
wrist. Had the resurrection of the morning reached him?

“O, Mrs. Whitcomb,” I exclaimed, “his pulse is stronger! I believe he
will live. I am so thankful!”

“Now run to bed, dear. You have had your way, and sat up all night.”

I did fall asleep, and never woke until the breakfast bell rang. Dr.
Hawley came in bright and early, and the verdict was favorable.

“Now you must feed him on beef tea, and I’ll feed him on iron,” he said
to Mrs. Whitcomb. “We will run a race to see which can get the most fat
on his bones. Goodness knows there’s need enough of it. He seems to
have put into practice some one’s suggestion, to take off his flesh and
sit in his bones a space. Cool, for this hot weather.”

“I suppose we can venture to be a little jolly now,” Stuart said, that
afternoon, as we were all on the porch. “We have been going about this
whole week like a funeral procession.”

“There might have been one—very easily,” I replied, with as much
sternness as I could put in my voice.

“But when you are through the woods, what is the use of frightening
yourself with the darkness and the ‘bug-a-boos’? Isn’t that what you
tell children? I never really believed that he was going to die. It is
only your good people—”

“Then there is not much fear of you,” said Fan.

“Thank Goodness, no. I mean to have a deal of fun out of life yet. Just
wait until I can get my hands into the money. There will be larks then,
I can tell you. Meanwhile, may we not dissipate harmlessly on croquet?”

“I think not,” was my answer. “Your brother is very weak and nervous;
and I have sometimes found the click of the balls hard to bear myself.”

“Hang it! I wish he was in—England with Stephen. He is always putting
on airs of some kind. Before I’d be such a Molly-fuss-budget I’d go off
and hang myself, and leave my money to the nearest of kin.”

“O, Stuart,” I exclaimed, “you are perfectly—”

“There, don’t preach to me, you small midget! I hate girls’ preaching.
It’s hard enough to have it on Sundays. Can a leopard change his
spots? Yes, he can go off to another spot. So I’ll go. Adieu, little
grandmother.”

He caught his hat, and walked down the garden path as if whistling for
a wager.

“There, you have made him angry,” declared Fan.

“I cannot help it. He doesn’t seem to care for anything. O!”

I was after him in a minute, for there he had Tabby by the nape of the
neck, holding her up high to see her draw up her feet and curl her tail
between her legs like a dog.

“Put her down!” I cried, authoritatively.

He held me off with one arm.

“Why, she likes it,” he said. “Look! what an angelic smile illumines
her countenance!”

“Mia-o-o-ow!” was kitty’s answer, in a prolonged wail; but she managed
to twist herself out of his grasp, and bounded off.

“You are a cruel, hateful boy!” I exclaimed, angrily.

But he only laughed, and went on his way whistling. Fan glanced up from
her embroidery.

“It is tit for tat,” she said, laughingly; “preaching and practice.”

I was quiet for some minutes.

“Do I preach much, Fan?” I asked, rather soberly.

“Not very much. But it may be as dangerous a habit as scolding, if one
gets confirmed in it. And I suppose it isn’t entertaining to boys.”

“But what are you to do when they are just as bad as they can be?”

“Bear it with Christian fortitude and resignation. I am not sure but
it will be good for us to have something that takes us out of the one
groove, and shows us that the world is wider than the little space just
around us.”

There was much truth in that, to be sure.

“You see we have had everything pretty much one way; and now we have
come to a change in the current. I rather like the stir and freshening
up.”

“But if Tabby was yours—”

“You remember the old lady whose idea of heaven was to ‘sit in a clean
checked apron, and sing psalms;’ and I think yours must be to sit here
on the porch, in a clean white dress, and nurse that sleek Maltese cat.”

“O, Fan, how can you be so irreverent?”

I heard the faint tinkle of a bell; so I ran up stairs. Mrs. Whitcomb
asked me to sit there while she went out for a walk. I took up some
crocheting, and, as I worked, watched the wind blowing about the high
tree-tops, and making picturesque backgrounds of the blue sky. Then a
wood robin came and sang his sweet song almost in my ear.

The sick youth stirred and opened his eyes wide. How strange and sunken
they looked!

“Where am I?”

I started at the question, and collected my wandering senses.

“At the rectory. At Mr. Endicott’s.”

“O! Have I been sick? How long since—I can’t seem to remember—”

“It is almost a fortnight since you were taken ill. But you are out of
all danger, and have only to get well.”

“I suppose I have been a great deal of trouble. Did I talk much?” And
he glanced sharply at me.

“No; that is, it was not of much account.”

“Where is Stuart?”

“Out somewhere.”

“May I have a drink?”

I gave him that.

“And you have been taking care of me—all the time?”

“Not all. Mamma and Mrs. Whitcomb have done the most of it.”

“Was I near dying?”

“We thought so, at one time,” I answered, rather slowly, not feeling
quite sure that the admission was right.

“It wouldn’t have been much loss. Both Stephen and Stuart would
have been glad, no doubt, or, at least, relieved. Don’t look so
horror-stricken.”

“I think you are unjust to both your brothers,” I said. “But perhaps it
is best not to talk any more. You are still weak.”

He turned his face over on the pillow, and was silent until mamma came
in and spoke in her cheerful fashion.

“You have all been very kind, much kinder than I deserve. How long will
it take me to get well?”

“That depends a good deal upon yourself,” returned mamma. “When you
feel like it, you may begin to sit up. And you must keep as cheerful as
possible. Are you not hungry?”

He thought he was presently; but he made a wry face over the beef tea.

“Can’t I have something besides this?” he asked. “I am so tired of it!”

“Then you may take it hereafter as medicine, and we will find a new
article of diet. I am glad that you are sufficiently improved to desire
a change. I will see what I can find for you.”

She was as good as her word; and Mrs. Whitcomb brought him up the
cunningest tea in the old-fashioned china, and a fresh nosegay of spice
pinks lying beside his plate.

“O, how delightful they are! I am very much obliged,” he said,
gratefully.

That evening Kate Fairlie and her brother Dick came over to call upon
us.

“I heard your invalid was out of danger, or I should not have
ventured,” she began, after the first greetings were over, “for it is
not a call of condolence merely. Fan, aren’t you glad school is over?
But what can you find to occupy yourself with? I am actually bored to
death already. We are to have some company from the city next week, and
we want to get up a picnic to go to Longmeadow. Won’t you two girls
join, and the young Mr. Duncan who isn’t sick? Dick thinks him such a
funny fellow. Where is he? Can’t I have an introduction? The boys all
seem to know him very well. And is it true that they are so rich?”

“They are very well provided for,” said Fan, quietly.

“And was that handsome man who came to church with you one Sunday, not
long ago, their brother? Has he gone to make the grand tour of Europe?
O, how I _do_ envy people who can go abroad!”

“He has gone to England on some business. He has been to Europe before.”

“Wasn’t he charming? How I should have enjoyed such a visitor! Mother
says that father might give us a winter in Paris just as well as not.
It would perfect my French so much!”

“Do you mean to teach?” asked Fan.

She had such a droll way of clipping the wings of Kate’s higher flights.

“Well, I should think not, Fanny Endicott! But I want to be fitted for
elegant society. I shall go to Washington a while in the winter; that I
am sure of, for my aunt has invited me; and she has no children—so she
will be glad to have me. And so I mean to make a brilliant marriage.”

“That’s all girls think about,” growled Dick.

“O, no,” returned Fan; “some have to think about darning stockings,
and making pies, and altering over their last summer’s dresses. And
some of them think about the future, whether they will be teacher or
dress-maker, or step over to the strong-minded side and keep books or
lecture.”

“I hope neither of you two girls will be strong-minded,” exclaimed
Dick. “Your father does not believe in it at all; and it doesn’t seem
the thing for women to be running round the country lecturing and
haggling with men about money.”

“But, Dick, they have to haggle with the butcher, and baker, and
candlestick-maker, and dry-goods clerk. And they have to scrub floors
and go out washing, and all that. I am afraid I _would_ rather be Anna
Dickinson, even if it is heterodox.”

“And have people laughing about you,” put in Kate, loftily.

“They do not laugh very much when you are a success, I have observed,”
was Fan’s reply.

[Illustration: ROSE’S ENCOUNTER WITH STUART. Page 82.]

“O, don’t let us bother about this humbug. We want to talk over the
picnic. Annie and Chris Fellows are going, and the Hydes, and the
Wests, and the Elsdens. In fact only the nicest people have been asked.
We want it to be select. I should have come to you right in the
first of it but for the sickness. Mrs. Hyde and Mrs. West are going to
take charge of the party. We will have croquet and games, and a little
dancing. Longmeadow is such a lovely place! You must go.”

“We shall have to see what mamma says about it,” I made answer, “and if
we can be spared.”

“Why, there is Nelly and all the others to help take care of the
baby. I am glad we never had any babies to bother with. I should feel
dreadfully if I had a sister. Mamma wouldn’t care half so much for me.”

“Mother-love goes around a good ways,” I said, a trifle resentfully.

“Yes. I don’t believe there is another woman in all Wachusett who loves
her girls any better than your mother,” spoke up Dick, who always had
been mamma’s great admirer. “And on the whole, I don’t know any girls
who have a better time at home.”

“I believe Dick would like our mamma to open a foundling hospital,”
said Kate, with a sneer. “As it is, he keeps the barn full of dogs and
cats, for we will not have them in the house.”

Stuart came up the walk, and Fan called him. He was tall and well-grown
for his sixteen years, and Kate was delighted with him. He accepted her
invitation at once but we were not prepared to give a positive answer.

But Mrs. Hyde came over the next morning and explained it to mamma. It
was to be very select; that is, only rich people were to be invited.
We stood on the boundary line. As daughters of a clergyman we could
visit the poor without contamination, and the wealthier people were not
expected to pass us by. So we had the best of both. But Fan declared
that it was sometimes hard work getting squeezed into all sorts of
places, whether you fitted or not.

“But the great business of this life is to make yourself fit,” papa
always declared.




CHAPTER VI.


“One of us must certainly go to the picnic,” papa said; and he did not
see why both could not go.

“Mrs. Whitcomb will have to leave us to-morrow,” mamma rejoined. “I do
not believe I could spare you both. On the other hand, we do not desire
to slight Mrs. Hyde’s kind invitation.”

“Let Fannie go then,” I exclaimed; “she and Stuart get along so nicely!”

“I am always ready,” said Fan. “But, at the same time, I do not feel
as if I ought, in every case, to have the first choice and all the
pleasures. I am willing to take my turn in staying at home.”

“But I would rather.”

“And Rose is used to the nursing now.”

“I thought Mrs. Whitcomb was going to help us sew,” said Fan. “No one,
save the baby, has anything to wear.”

“She has been so confined to the sick room, my dear! And Mr. Sprague
sent word that he should come for her to-morrow.”

“When I get rich, I shall hire Mrs. Whitcomb by the year,” Fan
announced. “She shall sew, and knit, and tend babies, and turn old
dresses; and we will have a perpetual holiday.”

Mamma laughed at that.

“It is very nice to have invitations to select picnics,” Fanny began
when we were up stairs. “But, since we are _not_ lilies of the
field, it behooves us to ask, wherewith shall we be clothed? Nelly
will have to take most of my last summer’s gowns. That sounds rather
grand—doesn’t it? The wood-colored lawn I inherited from mamma, my
tucked nainsook, and my pique. I can’t begin to squeeze into the
waists; and tight-lacing is injurious, even if you should pursue it
from the noble motive of economy. I don’t want to wear my new poplin
and get it spoiled; and my cambric is faded. I am dying for a new white
dress. O, dear, What a houseful there is to provide for, to be sure!”

“You do need the dress sadly. I wonder if we couldn’t get it?”

“We might ask papa for the collection money.”

“O, Fan, you irreverent girl!”

“Well, I am sure that is our only mode of living. It is a good one, but
rather limited at times. But won’t there be a jolly rejoicing in the
fall! Suppose we should have a new dress all round at the same instant!
Would it ruin the parish?”

“Not if we earned it ourselves, surely.”

“As we shall—keeping a hotel.” And she laughed.

Mamma favored the new dress. Fan went down to the store that afternoon
and bought it, and Dick Fairlie insisted upon driving her home in the
phaeton, telling her again and again how glad he was that she would go
to the picnic.

“Why, there would be no lack of girls, Dick,” she said, gayly.

“But they are not like you.”

“And Wachusett would be very stupid and monotonous if all its girls
were alike, or all its mountains.”

“But I can talk to you; and some of them I can not get on with at all.
I don’t like smart women.”

“O, Dick! I always supposed you liked me on account of my smartness. If
I had one virtue above another, I thought it was that.”

Dick blushed to the roots of his hair.

“I did not mean just that, Miss Fanny,” he stammered. “But some of
the academy girls have a way of laughing if you are not on your best
behavior every moment. And I am a plain, old-fashioned fellow. I like
Scotch ballads ever so much better than opera music, that I can’t
understand a word of; but I do believe Kate would think it a disgrace
to sing in anything but Italian. And woods and trees, and rambles
through them, and talks with friends, seem like ballad-singing to me.”

“Now, Dick, that is a nice, pretty idea. You see you do have thoughts
quite like other people. And the ballad-singing is delightful. I like
it myself.”

“I wish you would keep on down to the pines,” said, Dick wistfully. “It
is just a pleasant drive. I have to go for Kate at six; and here I have
an hour on my hands.”

“I cannot to-day, though I’m much obliged, Dick,” with a pause and a
questioning glance.

“Well.”

“I would like to ask a favor.”

“Anything. I’d be glad to do it for you.”

“Jennie Ryder is just getting over her fever, you know. I was down
there yesterday, and she was wishing I owned a carriage—which I never
shall. But if you could, and _would_, take her out, it would give me as
much pleasure as going myself.”

“I will,” returned Dick, with alacrity.

Fan told mamma and me.

“Though I suppose Kate would fancy her phaeton contaminated, if she
knew it,” Fan added, with a laugh. “But Dick is bright enough not to
say much about it; and I hope Jennie will have a splendid ride. She is
just as nice as anybody, even if she does sew for a living. And I wish
Dick would take a good honest liking to her.”

“Fan!” said mamma, gravely.

“Which means that I am too young, or too something else, to be thinking
of love matters. But they _do_ interest me, mamma _mia_, and I have a
longing to add this one and that one together, and have a sum total of
happiness. And then, little mother, you were only seventeen yourself
when you promised to love, honor, &c., as Mrs. Brown says; and I shall
be seventeen myself at Christmas. And think what an ancient spinster
Rose is getting to be!”

Mamma smiled a little, and examined her dress.

“It was thirty-five cents a yard. They had a lovely one for fifty; and
I looked at it until the flesh began to grow weak; then I fortified
myself by counting my money. And now comes the tug of war to get it
made.”

“We will all help a little,” returned mamma.

There was a general outcry the next morning when Mrs. Whitcomb went
away. Everybody besieged her to set a day for her return.

“I’ll save out a fortnight for you in September, if I possibly can,”
she said, with her sweetest smile. “I hope no one will be sick then,
and we will have a good, old-fashioned visiting time. Take the best
care you can of my patient, Rose.”

I gathered some fresh flowers and carried them up first of all. Louis
nodded his head in thanks.

“I am so sorry Mrs. Whitcomb had to go!” I said, by way of making
conversation.

“I liked her so much! Do you know—whether any one has written to
Stephen?”

“Papa did. He waited until you were out of danger, since he could not
send for him.”

“I suppose he would not have cared much either way;” and the thin lip
curled.

“Pardon me. I think he has a great deal of love for you. He was so
considerate of your comfort and health when he was here!”

“Seemed to be, you mean. When you have learned more of the world, Miss
Rose, you will know that there is a good share of glitter that is not
gold. He and Stuart would have had ever so much more money.”

“You wrong them both. You are unjust to them.”

“O,” he said, rather sneeringly, “you girls can get up quite a
sentiment for each other; but boys take a thing for what it is worth.
Neither of them loves me; and I can’t say there is much love lost
between us.”

“I wish you felt differently about them. And you have just been so ill,
too!”

“I told him that I wouldn’t go nor stay with Stuart. He torments my
very life out. I begged him to send me somewhere else. And no, he would
not. He treats me as if I were about ten years old, and did not know
what was best for myself. He cannot think that I am almost as much of
a man as he is!”

He uttered this in a rapid breath, and then gasped from exhaustion.

“Don’t excite yourself so,” I pleaded. “If you could have heard Stephen
talk of you when he was here! He begged us to make it as pleasant and
take as much interest in you as we could.”

“You have been very kind. I do not want to be ungrateful; but he
doesn’t care for me in that way. He thwarts every plan, he refuses
every wish, and did not even want me to try for college. He would like
to keep me a little boy at school half my life, I do believe.”

I went around pretending to tidy the room a bit; but Mrs. Whitcomb had
left it as neat as a pin. I could not bear to have him talk this way
against Stephen. Then I espied a book, and asked if I should read to
him.

“If you will,” was the rather indifferent answer.

But he was soon quite interested. He turned towards me, and his eyes
grew eager, and over his whole face came a peaceful light. It seemed
then as if there was quite a resemblance between him and the elder
brother, for I remembered that Stephen had a stern way of shutting his
mouth. Louis’s eyes were dark, and that gave him a more desperate look
when he was angry.

He was very full of whims and wants, but a while after dinner concluded
he would take a nap. As baby Edith had gone to peaceful slumbers, and
Nelly sat in the nursery, mamma had taken this opportunity to begin
cutting Fan’s dress. So I joined the conclave, and helped discuss the
momentous question.

Mamma was a born genius. I don’t know which gift or grace was the
strongest. I think she must have had a very evenly-balanced head. And
yet she used to tell us how really helpless she was at her marriage.
She had lived with a great-aunt, who was a whimsical invalid, and did
nothing but go to school, and read to, or amuse, her. Still, I suppose,
she learned those grand lessons of sweetness and patience which helped
so much in her after-life. And when she had to do, she went to work
bravely. She could cook equal to anybody in the parish; she could make
dresses and bonnets; and when you came to the altering, she was superb.
That was why I called her a born genius. Then she had kept up with
her music to some extent, and painted a little in water colors. Three
of papa’s birthday gifts had been pictures of her painting; and some
of the daintiest fruit-pieces in our dining-room were done by her in
colored crayons on a tinted background. No wonder we were proud of her.

Now we talked about overskirt and underskirt, basque, and ruffles, and
bands, and trimmings of various kinds.

“It is quite a fearful undertaking,” said Fan, with a sigh. “If I had
a little more courage, I’d make it perfectly plain; but, then, when I
went out and saw other people all furbelows and frills, I am afraid I
should be dissatisfied. And no one would believe it was a new dress.”

“It is better to take a little more trouble and be satisfied. But I
would not have any ruffles—they are so difficult to iron.”

“Not even one on the skirt?”

“No. I should cut a bias piece in points, and bind them; or you could
have two narrow ones.”

“And I will bind them, as you cannot do that on the machine very well,”
I said.

“You are a good girl, Rose of the World.—Mamma, I think I’ll have a
polonaise.”

“A sensible conclusion. It will make a nice outside garment for all
summer.”

“And I will just point the sleeves and the skirt. There is cheap
trimming for you. Give me credit for another bright idea. And a
bias-band pointed on both sides for the underskirt. So there is the
whole garment provided for. Then I shall have another errand to the
store, to get some pique braid;” and Fan gave a droll little smile.

Mamma began to cut. Fan opened the machine, and sewed the skirt
breadths together. The trimming was measured, and she shaped the points
to her fancy. Then mamma fitted the waist with fingers as deft as any
_modiste_.

“Mamma, if you were reduced to absolute penury, you could set up
dress-making,” Fanny said.

“I have found it very useful without the absolute penury,” returned
mamma, with a wise smile. “When one has seven girls, a good many
dresses are needed.”

“Are you sorry there are so many of us?”

“I do not know which one I would like to give up,” was the grave reply.

“It would be like the Irishman with his flock—wouldn’t it? Every one
of us has some special gift or grace. Mine is simply a grace—winning
ways and curly hair. O, there’s Miss Churchill, and this hall all in a
litter!”

The hall was so wide and airy that we used to sit there and sew in the
summer. Mamma was cutting on the table; so she just gathered the pieces
together, and pushed out papa’s chintz-covered arm-chair. I sat by the
window, crocheting some tiny garments for baby Edith. Fan opened the
hall door wide before Miss Churchill could ring to announce herself.
Mamma shook hands with her cordially.

The Churchills were some of the old families in the town. Oddly
enough, they had never intermarried with their neighbors, but kept to
themselves, and were considered rather haughty and exclusive. They
lived over on the west side, which was the aristocratic part of the
town, there being no mills or factories near.

Miss Esther Churchill, our visitor, was a tall, elegant woman of
perhaps forty-five. Mr. Kenton Churchill, the head of the family, was
about ten years older. Next to him came Mrs. Ogden, who had lived
abroad a great deal, and was now a widow, but wealthy, with one son
and one daughter. Then there was Miss Lucy, much younger, an invalid,
injured quite early in life by being thrown from a horse. They were
refined and particularly nice people, with those little formal ways
that always kept us in awe. Their house was very handsome, and it
seemed as if they must have everything that heart could wish for. They
always paid for two of the best pews in church, one of which they used,
while the other was considered free. Then Mr. Churchill subscribed
liberally to nearly every charitable object; but, somehow, they never
mixed much with the congregation; yet they were always spoken of in
the highest terms. Papa and mamma were always invited over to tea once
a year, and they called occasionally. Miss Esther had made a state
call upon baby Edith, bringing her a handsome cap and cloak. Mamma
had not returned that; so we were a little surprised, and, to use
a provincialism, “put about,” for an instant. But mamma has such a
wonderful grace and self-possession that there was no awkwardness.

“How do you do, young ladies? Quite busy, I see;” and she shook hands
with both. “How cosy and summery you look here. Why, it is quite like a
picture!”

The broad hall was covered with matting. There was a large,
old-fashioned hat-stand on one side, very much like the beautiful new
ones coming into fashion. It had quite a large glass, and drawers under
it, with branching arms out both sides. On either side of it was a
quaint, high-backed chair. They might have come over in the Mayflower,
but I don’t suppose they did. A tall vase of ivy stood on the floor,
the green branches climbing over some picture-frames; and there were
several brackets hanging about, holding vases of flowers, besides a
luxuriant fernery, that had received contributions from all of us. The
hall door opened on one side, while the stairs went up on the other,
and in this sort of shut-off corner was our work-room.

“Yes, it is quite like a picture,” she went on. “It seems to me that a
hall should be the largest and most beautiful part of the house, and
that the family ought to be gathered there. I like the old-fashioned
descriptions of people dining in their hall, or giving audience.”

“And we add sewing on to that,” said Fan, with a little laugh. “Instead
of Carrara marble, we have multiplication tables.”

“We have been somewhat straitened for room latterly,” mamma explained;
“for, when baby is asleep we like to keep it quiet in the nursery; and
papa’s study is the one spot that we never invade with sewing.”

“It is like keeping one grand lady in the house,” Fan added, in her
bright way. “And it gives one a feeling of the utmost respectability.”

Miss Churchill smiled at that. She would always be a handsome woman,
though I don’t imagine any one had ever called her a pretty girl; she
was too large and grand. Her forehead was broad, her hair smooth as
satin, a peculiar unglossy brown, and it always gave me the idea of a
rich lustreless silk. Her eyes were very nearly of the same shade; her
chin broad and firm, and her teeth wonderfully white, strong and even.
Then she had a rather pale but perfect complexion.

“What a quaint child you are!” and she seated herself gracefully in the
arm-chair, “Mrs. Endicott, you might be some historical personage with
her maids of honor about her. That is what _my_ thought is like. And
you _do_ look so sociable! I have been calling on the Maynards; and you
would be surprised at the amount of thinking I have done between there
and here. My seeing you has just put it into shape. Or, I suppose, it
started with something that Lucy said as I was coming out.”

“How is Lucy?!” asked mamma.

“Rather poorly. And then she has been a good deal disappointed. We were
expecting Mrs. Ogden and Helen; and Lucy counts so much on that every
summer! But the Fates have overruled. They go to Newport for the whole
season. Word came three days ago. I have hardly known how to entertain
Lucy since.”

“Does she not go out?”

“Only for about half an hour; her back is so weak that it fatigues her.”

“Yet I should not think she would ever get tired of reading and looking
at your beautiful pictures, and all the rest. There is so much, that by
the time I reached the end, the first part would be new to me again,”
Fan said.

“You think that, because you can have a constant variety. And sixteen
carries with it a glamour which fades afterwards. Do you not find it
so, Mrs. Endicott?”

Mamma blushed and looked puzzled.

“We have another sight at youth through our children’s eyes,” she
answered, softly.

“I do believe it is true. That is why you keep your youth and freshness
through all the—”

“Hard work and worries,” appended mamma, with a smile.

“I did not like to say quite that. The people of now-a-days seldom
approve of such wholesome confessions.”

“But it is our business to set a good example, and not to be ashamed of
the duties of that state of life unto which it pleases God to call us,”
mamma returned.

“We get out of that safe fold sometimes, I am afraid; or, perhaps, we
contract the ‘state,’ make it narrower than God meant it should be.”

What had happened to Miss Churchill? I glanced at her in shy amaze. She
was gracious, elegant, and formal on most of the occasions when I had
met her.

“Yes; we are rather prone to put up fences. And we never know how much
pleasure we shut out along with the persons.”

“That is like my thought, too. I was going to tell you of my call at
the Maynards. First, though, I must acknowledge that I was feeling a
trifle down-hearted on Lucy’s account. I have my house-keeping, and
gardening, and driving out with brother, and rarely get lonesome.
But Lucy stays so much in her room, and Kenton is so fond of being
in his study, that we may be said to lead almost separate lives. I
was thinking it over as I came along. The servant ushered me into the
shaded drawing-room, where the atmosphere was close and sultry with
the odor of flowers. Then Mrs. Maynard sent for me to come to her
room, where she was taking comfort in a dressing-sacque. She bewailed
the loneliness and stupidity of the place, and thought of going to
Saratoga. Then Etta Silverthorne called me into her room. She was
lying on the bed reading a novel, and had the same story to tell. I
asked for the young ladies, and found that Josephine wanted to see me
particularly about a list of books. Would I come to her? Emily was
copying one of Lucy’s paintings, and I must journey to her studio
up-stairs. Then I had to make a call on grandmother, who was very
lonesome, and glad to have a little talk with some one. The girls were
so busy they could only run in a moment at a time; Mrs. Silverthorne
was so fond of reading that she could not bear to be disturbed, and
she hated to read aloud; Mrs. Maynard had the care of the house, of
course. ‘And so I sit here alone pretty nearly all the time,’ said poor
old grandmother.”

“And she is such a nice, enjoyable old lady, too!” mamma remarked.

“There were five women, capable of interesting and amusing each other,
all longing for society. Why did it not occur to them that they might
have a sociable at home? I came directly here, and saw three little
girls having a tea-party under a tree, and three here, looking bright
and animated. You don’t wonder now that I was taken with the picture!”

“An interior. Still life, after—” mamma said, quaintly, as if she were
reading a title.

“And we were not so very still either,” added Fanny. “We were taxing
our inventive faculties in the dress-making line. We wanted something
pretty with a little work and a little money. A new dress is a great
event in our lives. We generally step into each other’s, have them
taken up a trifle on the shoulders, and the skirts shortened. But I
have had the misfortune to outgrow Rose; so the family exchequer has to
be squeezed now and then.”

I was amazed at her daring to say so much to Miss Churchill. However,
she laughed in such a pretty, whole-hearted way that I had no further
misgiving.

“Seven girls! Is that the number? How do you ever get the dress-making
done? It is the staple grievance of nearly every one I know.”

“We do not have many dresses,” said irrepressible Fan; “and our pattern
being small, the puffs and rufflings have to be dispensed with. So we
are saved the trouble of deciding between biassed tucking up and down
the gores, and of fluted bobbinet insertion box-plaited beyond the
equator, that drove the man crazy when he tried to carry his wife’s
message to the dress maker.”

“I should think it would.” And this time Miss Churchill laughed
heartily. “How fortunate you are to be able to do your own! though I
think every woman ought to have some knowledge of it.”

“Every woman ought to know enough of something to support herself by
it, if the necessity comes.”

“Yes. And do you know, now that there is so much talk of independence,
I am afraid many of our girls are making a sad mistake? They are all
trying to rush into the very front ranks, whether they are geniuses or
not; and some of them will be crowded out. There will be no nice home
girls left. But perhaps these young ladies have a vocation?” and she
glanced up with a charming, lady-like hesitation.

“Rose will be a home girl, Miss Churchill. The credit of our family
will be saved. But I can’t decide whether I have a great deal of
genius, and could do anything, or whether my range is so limited that
the right thing would be difficult to find. I could not write a book,
or lecture, or edit a newspaper. I might paint a second-rate picture,
or, possibly, teach school; but I should not like the last.”

“Fanny!” said mamma in mild reproof.

“I know what she would be excellently fitted for,” replied Miss
Churchill, quickly. “And that emboldens me to offer my plea, or,
rather, my sister’s. But how thoughtless I am! Mrs. Endicott, I did
not hear of your added burden and anxiety until a few days ago. I am
sincerely sorry that you should have had so much trouble outside of
your own family, as the serious illness of this young Duncan.”

“Yes, it has been rather unfortunate; but we are through the worst, I
hope. Mr. Endicott is guardian for these boys.”

“He is extremely kind and conscientious, I am sure. But I can hardly
understand how you manage, with all the rest of your work. There comes
Kenton and the carriage, and I feel as if I had not made half a call.”

“I am sure you need not hurry,” exclaimed mamma, who had warmed
wonderfully towards our visitor. “And you had something to ask—for your
sister.”

“O, I am positively ashamed to. I ought to help instead of hindering.”

“Ask it, nevertheless,” said mamma.

“I told Lucy that I was going to call here; and, as I said, she was
feeling quite dispirited and lonesome. ‘Give them all my kindest
regards,’ she said, ‘and ask Mrs. Endicott if she cannot spare one of
the girls to spend the day with me. I’d like to have the one who talks
a good deal.’ Is it a compliment to you, Miss Fanny?”

Fan blushed scarlet.

“I was thinking, a few moments ago, that you, with your bright spirits,
would be invaluable to invalids. But I suppose you can hardly spare
her out of your sick room.” And she glanced at mamma.

“O, Miss Churchill, you rate me too highly,” returned Fanny. “Rose is a
charming and sensible nurse. I never try nursing.”

“Mrs. Whitcomb has been staying with us, and our sick room has had to
be kept very quiet,” said mamma. “Fanny would do better where society
is needed.”

“And that is just Lucy’s case. Now, Miss Fanny, if your mamma _can_
spare you, I will sew on your dress, or do anything to help make up the
time.”

“If it would really be any pleasure, I can readily consent to her
going,” mamma responded.

“It would, indeed. I do not think I realized how busy you all must be,
or I should not have had the courage to prefer my request. And I hope
you will not consider that I have taken a liberty in bringing a few
articles for your patient.”

With that she rose, and went down the path to her brother, who handed a
snowy basket out to her.

“I ventured to put in a few fine summer pears besides: those are for
the children. And now, Mrs. Endicott, what day will your daughter be
most at liberty? Are you quite sure that I am not asking too much?”

“We shall be very glad to grant what you desire,” was the sweet reply.
“Our days are pretty much alike.”

“Would to-morrow be too soon? And bring your dress, for I can sew
beautifully on a machine, and I fancy I have some skill in that art.
I have had such a pleasant call that I hate to go. Miss Rose, come
over any time; we shall be glad to see you. My kindest regards to Mr.
Endicott. Is there anything that I can do for you?”

“Not just now. Thank you most kindly.” And mamma walked with her to the
gate.

“Don’t they look lovely together!” exclaimed Fan. “Mamma is as much of
a lady as Miss Churchill.”




CHAPTER VII.


“O mamma, wonders will never cease!” exclaimed Fan. “To think that I
should be singled out for such favors! Why, Kate Fairlie would die of
envy this blessed moment, if she knew it!”

“And how charming Miss Churchill was!” I said.

“She is a very lovely woman, and she was unusually cordial to-day.”

“Do you suppose it was that she—wanted a favor?” asked Fanny, slowly.

“No my dear. I think she told the simple truth. They were lonesome at
home, and the unsocial element at the Maynards’ jarred upon her. Our
homelikeness, if I may use the word, just fitted in with her longing.
It always appeared to me such an unwise fashion of the members of a
family meeting only at meals. I am not willing to be shut out of your
lives, my girls.”

“And you shall not be, mamma _mia_. We will share our sorrows, and
joys, and new dresses. I’ll talk of sublime resignation to poverty, and
then make visits in aristocratic circles.”

“And in the meanwhile we might try on this garment. But, my dear, do
not let your spirits run away with you. Flippancy is not brightness.”

“How we all sat and sewed!” exclaimed Fan. “It did not seem the least
bit awkward. At all events, I cut and Rose crocheted. All that trimming
is ready. Oh, Rose, it is mean for me to take all the good things of
life.”

I thought my head would go off in that rapturous hug. And I was glad
that I was not a bit jealous.

Mamma gave a pinch here, and a pull there, and, behold Fan’s dress
fitted after the similitude of a glove.

“It is just lovely!” was Fan’s ecstatic comment. “Kate Fairlie and Sue
Barstow will die of envy when they see it. Now I shall have just time
enough to run up the seams. Of course, mamma, you wouldn’t think of
taking it?” and Fan gave an inquiring glance.

“No, indeed, though it was kind in Miss Churchill to say it, since your
time was more precious than hers.”

We began to pick up the pieces and restore order. Just then papa came
in, and baby Edith woke and cried. Fan rushed at papa and kissed him
rapturously, telling over the whole story in an instant. She had such a
remarkable way of going to the point of anything without loss of time.

“Really!” he exclaimed; “I am glad she asked you. You can do a little
work for the good cause to-morrow, Fanny.”

“O, papa, it is to be a whole long holiday!”

“You lazy little girl!”

“Papa, if you do not treat me real handsomely, I will go over to the
strong-minded ‘sisteren,’ and write a book, or lecture, or something.”

“I am willing you should lecture. I will give you a subject: ‘The rich
and poor meet together, and the Lord is Maker of them all.’”

“There, Fan!” And it was my turn to laugh.

Fan shook her head solemnly.

“It did not frighten him a bit,” she said.

“No, my dear; since there is room for so much work in the world. I
have often wished the Churchills and several others would come out of
their shells, or their beautiful Edens, and go at some of the thistles
beyond their gates.”

“Poor people have such splendid ideas—don’t they, papa? But then rich
people have all the money.”

“There is something needed besides money. If rich people could only
see how many nice and pleasant gifts and favors they could bestow
without lowering themselves, which so many people are afraid of, ladies
especially. The majority of the poor and ignorant are no more anxious
to come up to their level, than they are to have them.”

“We are lucky to be on the middle ground,” said Fan. “We cannot be
accused of undue ambition, or be snubbed very severely. And yet I do
think it just lovely to be rich, and I always shall.”

“My dear, so do I,” returned papa, gravely. “And we should endeavor
not to array wealth against us. We may in time soften some of the
prejudices on both sides. People need to see soul to soul, and not stop
at the burr outside.”

The tinkle of a small bell reached me. I rose, sorely against my will,
not daring to linger in the family bosom of temptation. The young man
up stairs was continually interfering in some way. Just when you were
having a nice talk, you were compelled to leave off in the middle and
run away, or some one ran away from you. Why, it was as bad as parish
visiting. But there _was_ the money at the end of it—mercenary little
wretch that I had become!

Yet you cannot live in the world superior to all such considerations,
if you are poor. I know the lilies are gorgeously arrayed, and the
ravens fed; but, when you are _not_ a lily, or not a raven, and the
wants and the work come, you must endure the one, and go courageously
at the other.

At this point in my reflections I entered the room and encountered the
wan, eager eyes.

“Did I interrupt you, or call you away from something pleasant? I am so
sorry. I was so lonesome, and—”

It was a good deal for him to say. Had we changed places and was _I_
ungracious?

“It was not anything special. Have you been long awake?”

“More than an hour.”

“Then it is I who ought to apologize,” I said, cheerfully. “Can I get
you anything?—Are you not hungry?”

“I would like to have a drink of good, cold water. I am a deal of
trouble, am I not?”

“If I were sick I would like some one to wait upon me,” I said, and ran
down stairs.—Ann was at the end of the garden, picking berries; so I
drew the water myself; and as I brought the bucket up to the curb, the
woman of Samaria came into my mind. If I could give any such comfort of
living water! Did I really desire to? So far I had done barely what was
required of me. It did not look half as enchanting as reading to and
amusing Miss Lucy Churchill. But wasn’t there a good work in it as well?

I entered the room with a glass pitcher, through which the water shone
and sparkled. There was such a thirsty, longing look in his eyes that I
was glad to minister to him.

“Thank you a thousand times. I have been wanting that for the last half
hour.”

“Why did you not ring sooner?”

[Illustration: ROSE’S VISIT TO THE INVALID. Page 121.]

“You had a visitor; and I call for so many things. There appears to be
no end to my wants. I am ashamed of myself. But it is so tiresome to
lie here helpless.”

“What would be the next thing, if I were a fairy?” I asked, laughingly.

Was it my mood that made him smile?

“There is a tantalizing smell of honeysuckle somewhere about. Nay,
don’t run down stairs again.”

“It is just on the porch.”

Mamma was emptying Miss Churchill’s basket. A bowl of custard, a jar of
wine jelly, fresh eggs, a great, creamy pot-cheese, and the pears. I
just took a whiff of the fragrance and passed on.

“Let me have a piece of it here in my hand.”

“How odd that you should be so fond of flowers!”

“Is it? Sweet blooms only. May be you would not approve of such a love.
I like to crush them and have them about me. Not but what I admire them
in vases, too, but then they do not come into my very life.”

“Or die for you.”

I had said it, and then I paused in a great tremble, thinking of the
other death that came through love, greater than which hath no man.

“Miss Endicott,” he said, slowly, “are you very religious?”

I colored, and turned my face away; then I thought of “confessing
before men.” What should make me afraid here, except the sense of
personal unworthiness?

“I try a little. I have not gone very far in the way.”

“I know some people who are _very_ religious,” he went on, “and
I—dislike them. That was another reason why I did not want to come
here—because your father was a clergyman. But you always appear to have
such nice, enjoyable times. You talk over everything with him and your
mother.”

“Why should we not? It would be strange if they were not interested
in all that concerns us. And bringing home a bit of pleasant talk or
some bright and amusing incident is like adding a sheaf to the general
granary. Does it not seem as if each one ought to contribute to the
fund of happiness?”

“I suppose it is a good deal in the way you look at it. And the having
a home, may be.”

“Yes,” I said, “that is the great thing, or next to the having a
mother.”

“What if I were seized with a fit of confessing my sins? Would that be
added to the ‘general fund?’”

“I think we have all been brought up to respect a confidence,” I
answered, a trifle wounded. “But it would be better to confess them to
papa.”

“I might not want to;” and he gave a short laugh that did not seem
at all natural. “In fact, there are very few people who suit me, or
attract me—the same can, doubtless, be said of me. Do you know—and I
have never owned it before in my life—I am sometimes jealous of Stuart?
Every one takes to him, likes him; and he is no better than—other
people. He is not always truthful; he _is_ awfully selfish, and
heartless, too. Only he has that sunny, glowing way with him; and most
people are such fools that they cannot see through it. So he gets
credit for sweetness, when it is only—”

“A matter of temperament,” I returned, filling up the long pause.

“Exactly. Why cannot others understand that it is so?”

“Because nearly every one likes roses better than thorns. We naturally
shrink from a rough, prickly outside. No matter if the kernel is sweet,
every one, you know, cannot wait years and years for it to open. And
you seem to shut yourself up—”

“There is nothing to show, so I make no pretence,” he answered, in a
dry, hard tone.—“I hate froth, and all that.”

“Yet I suppose the waterfall is much prettier for the spray and
bubbles. Frail as they are, they reflect many beautiful tints. And I
suppose God could have made apples just as well without such showers of
fragrant blooms, and He may put some people in the world for the sake
of the blossom and the sweetness rather than the fruit.”

“What an idea! I should think you would be educated to consider the
strictly useful.”

“But all things that God has made have their uses.”

“You keep to the text—that God does it all. It is a woman’s province to
believe, I fancy.”

There was a little sneer in that.

“Does unbelief render men so much happier that they love to cling to
it?” I asked.

“Oh, they are dipping into science and philosophy, and see so much more
of the world,” he replied, loftily.

I turned to the window—and was silent.

“There!” he exclaimed, “I have vexed you.”

“No.” I returned, “I am not vexed. I only wish I knew the right words
to say to you; mamma might.”

“You are all very kind. I wonder that you were so good, when the
beginning was so unpromising. You must have thought us a couple of
brutes.”

“Stuart apologized handsomely to papa.”

“O, I dare say. He is up to that sort of dodge;” and a smile of scorn
curled his thin lip.

“I wish you loved your brothers better,” I could not forbear saying.

“It is their loss, no doubt.”

What could I do with him in such a mood? “Preaching,” as Fan called it,
was useless. Then I bethought myself of Miss Churchill’s call, and told
him what she had brought for him.

“And now,” I said, “it is time you had your supper. You must be nearly
starved.”

With that I ran down stairs. Yes, I did like bright, pleasant people.
Mamma’s cheery ways and papa’s sweetness were worth more than doses of
science and philosophy, since we have to live in a work-day world, and
cannot soar up to the clouds. It is just the every-day being that is
life, not the grand dreams that never come to pass.

I prepared the tray and took it, standing it on a table at the bed’s
side. When I returned the little group were in their accustomed places,
with papa ready to ask the blessing. I slipped quietly into the circle.

When I went to bring the dishes down I remarked a peculiar expression
upon Louis’ face.

“Miss Rose,” he began, “I want to know how it feels to be generous;
therefore I shall give you a holiday this evening. I must resolve to
stay alone now and then.”

“Are you quite sure—?”

“Quite;” and he waved his hand, smilingly.

I did want to go down to the store with Fan; so I was glad of the
permission. Stuart started to accompany us but two of the village boys
came to call on him. I was relieved, for I wanted to stop on the way
and see one of my Sunday School children.

Fan bought her braid, and we found the baby at the Day’s was sick, and
Betty had to stay at home to help take care of it. Poor thing, how wild
and wan it looked, so different from our rosy Edith.

Mrs. Day’s house was generally in disorder. She was a hard-working
woman in some respects, for she was always at it. Her husband was a
gardener and day-laborer, earning his twelve dollars a week pretty
regularly, and they owned a small cottage and garden, that Mrs. Day
senior had left them. Yet they always looked very poor.

“Yes,” Mrs. Day was saying, “I couldn’t spare Betty on Sunday. Husband
went over the river to see his cousin, and took little Jem. I’d been
hard at work all the week, and was clear beat out, up half the night,
too. And I don’t see as the baby gets a bit better. You don’t know what
it is to look after a baby all alone by yourself, and not have a soul
to raise a finger for you.”

“But Betty helps a good deal.” I returned, for I could not bear to have
the child so underrated.

“A girl like that can’t do much at the best. Now, if I had one or two
grown up, as your mother has!”

She always thought if she only had something another person possessed,
she should be happier. I wondered a little how she would get along with
mamma’s cares and worries, and sewing, to say nothing of the demands
from outside.

“Ask your ma if she cannot come over. Hardly a soul has been in, and I
can’t go anywhere for a bit of change. But poor people have to do the
best they can in trouble.”

I promised, and spoke a few words of cheer to sad-eyed Betty.

“That woman always does try me!” declared Fan. “If I was a minister’s
wife she would be a thorn in my side. How many poor, inefficient people
there are in this world, and the worst feature appears to be their
inability to learn anything! I do not believe they try in good earnest.”

“Yet I feel sorry for her.”

“Well, yes, and the poor sick baby. But if her room had been swept, her
dishes taken to the kitchen, and her hair combed, and a collar on, how
it would have altered the aspect of the place! And she seems to think
every one else in the world has it so much easier.”

“This is one of the places where one must not weary in well-doing, papa
would say,” was my rejoinder.

“You are a good little girl, Rose. I have not half your faith or
patience. I wonder if I shall be of any real and sensible use in this
world?”

“You can try to-morrow. The house will be clean.”

“I am afraid I should not want to go, otherwise,” she returned,
laughingly.

The man came over for her the next morning, quite early, having been
to the village on business. We felt that she was going off in state,
but I suppose it was on account of its being the West Side and the
Churchills, for Fan somehow was fortunate in having plenty of rides
fall to her share. She uttered a laughing good-bye and they drove away.

It seems odd how one event comes out of another, like the wonderful
Chinese transformations. You open a ball and the article inside is one
you would never have guessed at. You go to some place, and one trifling
incident changes the course of one’s whole life, or a few words that
some person utters carelessly brings about a new train of thought and
action, and your life is not quite the same afterward.

The Churchill mansion had a look of the old nobility. It was two
stories, with a great, double pitched roof, and wide, overhanging
eaves. Just the old fashion of white and green. But the blinds were
never faded, and the exterior never soiled. A porch on the front and
one side, upheld by square, white columns, and on the other side the
graveled roadway to the barn. A lawn in front, terraced twice, with
clumps of blossoming shrubs, or dainty beds cut out sharply in the
grass. For the house stood on a slight hill which gave it a still more
commanding appearance.

But around, just a trifle removed, to let in the sunshine, stood the
glory of it all. Great trees, elms, maples, a giant black-walnut,
hemlocks that must have grown nearly a hundred years, firs, spruce and
larches waving their long fringy arms. No modern sacrilegious hands had
come near to disturb them. Birds built in their branches year after
year, and the sunshine sifted through on the grass.

It was a warm morning and Miss Lucy’s reclining chair had been wheeled
out to the shady side of the porch. She was dressed in white with pale
pink roses in her hair and at her throat. Just turned of thirty she had
the Churchill maturity with a certain delicate girlishness. You could
imagine Miss Esther being a handsome and stately old woman, but it
seemed as if Miss Lucy must always stay where she was.

Mr. Churchill came to help her out, Miss Esther welcomed her warmly,
and Lucy put forth her hand with a smile.

“I was afraid we might be too early, but Abner had to go over on
business, and we told him to wait if you were not ready. Did you have a
pleasant ride?”

“It is very kind of you to come. I hope I shall not tire you out before
the day is over,” said Miss Lucy.

“O, you will not, I am sure,” Fanny returned with her bright smile. “I
am delighted to come.”

“And the sewing?” Miss Churchill exclaimed.

“I did all the long seams last evening, and Rose is to bind my trimming
for me, but I am much obliged.”

“What industrious girls you are. I am almost conscience smitten. Are
you quite sure you could be spared?”

“Yes, indeed. Don’t think of that please, Miss Churchill.”

“Will you sit here awhile? The air is so fresh and fragrant. The
greater part of my going out amounts to this only, so I am thankful for
the beautiful prospect. Look at those woods over there.”

Another knoll dark with evergreens as tall as those around the house.
At a little distance an adjoining hill, but in the level opening
between, there was a field of ripening wheat which looked like a golden
sea. Fan spoke of it.

“How odd,” returned Miss Lucy, “I have had the same thought dozens of
times in the last fortnight. I sometimes imagine that there is a lovely
undiscovered country just beyond, and what it is like. I am glad that I
cannot go out to discover it, that would take away half the charm.”

Fanny smiled at the quaint conceit, so satisfying.

“And now tell me all about the children at home, and the sick young
man? What do you think Dr. Hawley said to me a few days ago?—Miss Lucy,
you need some one to bring you a good dish of gossip.”

“Good gossip at that;” laughed Mr. Churchill with a humorous twinkle in
his eye. “If Miss Endicott does not acquit herself well, I’ll go for
some of the village cronies.”

“I’ll begin with the baby then,” and Fanny moved her seat a trifle.
“She is just the cunningest baby you ever saw. We were all smart
children, but she is a prodigy. She sits alone, and creeps a little
sideways, and when she gets in a glee, flaps her wings, i. e. her arms,
and crows.”

Mr. Churchill shook his head solemnly. “That will hardly do for a
girl,” he said, “and a clergyman’s daughter.”

“We think it best for her to do her crowing while she is small,” was
Fannie’s playful answer.

She talked about the others—Fan had a way of brightening up everything
that was very amusing. Not that she ever made it out better or worse—it
was only the quaint touches of harmless pleasantry.

Miss Lucy laughed softly and a pink tint came to her pale cheeks.

Miss Esther in the meanwhile made several journeys to and fro. Mr.
Churchill took up his paper and pretended to read, but his eyes
wandered to the fair young girl whose simple homelikeness was her
greatest charm. Presently the sun came around, and Miss Lucy’s chair
was wheeled to the sitting room, which was cool and shady.

All their entertainments were not kept for the great drawing-room.
Here were pictures, a well filled book-case, articles of _virtu_, a
cabinet of shells, minerals and precious stones, and portfolios of
fine engravings. Here an album filled with notable authors, artists
and musical people, another with eminent men of Europe, and remarkable
women. Fan had enough to entertain her there.

Suddenly a bell rang.

“This is the shortest morning that I have known for some time,”
exclaimed Miss Lucy. “It hardly seems possible that is the dinner bell.
We are old fashioned in our hour, you see.”

Fan was astonished as well. Mr. Churchill gave Lucy his arm, as she
could walk with a little assistance. Miss Esther led Fanny.

The dinner table was like a picture. The quaint old china, delicately
flowered, and the antique silver was set off by the snowy cloth and the
brilliant bouquets with trailing stems that looked as if they might
have grown in the vases. Fan enjoyed it all to the uttermost, and was
too happy to envy aught of it.

“You have been sitting up all the morning;” said Miss Churchill, “and
you do not look a bit tired now! Shall we give Miss Fanny the credit?”

“I think she deserves it. Indeed I hardly noticed how the time passed.
You see I get so tired of staying alone, or talking over the same old
subjects with Essie.”

“You are a grateful young woman I must say!” and Miss Churchill laughed.

“Kenton, couldn’t we have a drive to Round Hill about sunset? I think I
could go.”

“What, more dissipation?”

“Please don’t undertake too much,” said Fanny. “I am well content to
stay here.”

“But the sunset is so lovely there.”

“You must have a good long rest;” said her sister, “and we will see how
you feel then.”

“I dare say Miss Endicott will be glad for I have kept her talking
steadily.”

“I am used to it,” laughed Fan, “and somehow I never understood the
charms of solitude, or perhaps was born incapable of appreciating them.”

“There is no doubt of that;” Mr. Churchill returned with a quiet smile.

They sat over their desert a long while, talking of various subjects
that were exceedingly entertaining. The quiet and air of formal
courtesy that was far removed from stiffness, pleased and interested
Fanny greatly.

But Miss Churchill was inexorable afterward, and would not even consent
to Fan’s going up stairs with Lucy. Instead she took charge of her and
they inspected the house and the clean, fragrant dairy, and lastly
found themselves in Miss Churchill’s room. This was large and airy,
looking cool in its summer dress of matting and furniture of cane or
delicate chintz covers.

The visit was so different from the formal little calls that we had
been in the habit of making with either of our parents. Indeed, Fan
always declared that this day’s experience took her right into the
Churchills’ lives, and I think it did.

A dress of fine white India muslin lay on Miss Churchill’s bed.
At least, the skirt which had three ruffles edged with delicate
needlework. The rest had been ripped apart and ironed out.

“Do you think it pretty?” asked Miss Churchill.

“It is lovely. What exquisite muslin! I wonder what makes these old
things so much more beautiful than what we have now?”

“They are neater and not so showy.”

“But this would be noticeable anywhere.”

“Yes, yet it has an air of quiet refinement. Twenty or thirty years ago
ladies bought dresses to keep, now they are unpardonably old after one
or two seasons, therefore it does not pay to make them so elegant. My
dear Miss Fanny, I may as well confess to a conspiracy. I brought out a
lot of old dresses yesterday—too pretty to give to the absolute poor. I
selected this and altered the skirt. It is all done but the band. I did
not know precisely what to do with the waist, so I shall have to give
you the material. And if you will accept these for yourself and your
sister—there is a great quantity in them, and you will find it a nice,
serviceable fabric, as it will save washing. Please do not consider me
officious.”

“Oh, Miss Churchill!” was all that Fan could say.

“This pine-apple will be good for afternoon wear, and I believe to some
extent in useful gifts. The other I wanted you to have because it was
so pretty. I have two more, which will last me my life time.”

“You are too generous! Oh, Miss Churchill, how can I thank you?”

“By wearing and enjoying them, my dear, and not having any fussy
feeling over them. Just as if they had come from an aunt, for instance.
I do not believe your mother will object. She is too truly a lady to
fancy that I desire to place you under any obligation.”

I should have stood silent and abashed. Fan did the best thing of all,
just clasped her arms around Miss Churchill’s neck and kissed her for
thanks.

The stage came lumbering along at that moment. Miss Churchill glanced
out of the window with one arm still around Fanny.

“Of all things! Here is Winthrop Ogden looking too merry for any
misfortune. It is like him to take us so by surprise. My dear, I will
run down a moment.”




CHAPTER VIII.


Fan heard the sound of the voices without distinguishing the words,
and turned to an inspection of the dresses. There was a dainty apron
overskirt of the muslin, with the same lovely ruffling around it,
and plenty for the waist and sleeves. The others were blue and white
striped, one very narrow, the other about an inch wide, with a kind of
embroidered figure in the stripe. The skirts were long and full, and
with one there was a mantle.

Miss Churchill returned presently.

“You have not mutinied in my absence, have you? My dear girl, I do not
want to place you under any obligation, yet I thought these garments
might be of some use to you and your sister. It would not do to send
them to the sewing society to be cut up for the very poor. Don’t give
yourself an anxious thought. Now go in to Lucy who is waiting for you,
and when she is ready you must come down stairs and see our nephew.”

Miss Lucy was much rested. “I have had three or four naps which did me
a world of good;” she said. “You see I was very tired, and that made me
rest delightfully. All my good things come at once. Winthrop is here.”

She looked bright and cheerful.

“Can I not do something for you?” asked Fanny. “I might brush your
hair, I often do mamma’s.”

“If it would not trouble you—Essie does it in the morning, and I
generally manage it in the afternoon. But I am afraid—”

“No,” returned Fan cordially, divining the delicate fear. She took up
the brush and soon had it in order.

Usually Miss Lucy walked about without any assistance, but being
somewhat weak now, she had to help herself with a cane which she always
kept in her room. Fan tried to anticipate her wants, and she was ready
so soon that she rang the bell for her brother, who came to assist her
down stairs.

“This is our nephew, Mr. Ogden;” announced Miss Churchill, “Miss
Endicott.”

Fan remembered seeing him at church occasionally. He was about
twenty-two, and had matured considerably in a year. He was medium
height, with a rather handsome, rollicking face. There was a laugh in
his hazel eyes, in his curly chestnut hair, and it seemed to play hide
and seek about his mouth, the upper lip being shaded by a soft brown
moustache.

“Ah, Miss Endicott,—though I ought to know you without a formal
presentation, only I could not save your life I suppose if I were not
introduced. How are you, Aunt Lucy? Why you have roses, actually! I
thought from Aunt Essie’s letter that you must be a pale shadow!”

“The roses are in your honor, and not very durable. I am glad to see
you, but oh how you have—changed!”

“For the better allow me to hope!”

She laughed. “But how did you come to take us so by surprise? I thought
you were at Newport.”

“I was yesterday. But I had to dance so much night before last, that
I was afraid of impairing my constitution. I began to sigh for simple
country life, and came hither, thinking of uncle Kenton’s horses.”

“They are in a fine condition;” said Mr. Churchill.

“And I can have only a fortnight’s vacation now, so I mean to make the
most of it. The other two weeks will come in September.”

“Your mother and Helen—?”

“Are delightfully well and charmingly entertained—can you ask more?”

He gave a droll little smile at this.

We heard sometime afterward that Miss Ogden was engaged, and her
lover’s mother being very fond of her, they had gone to Newport
somewhat on her account.

“Come out on the porch. Here is your chair Lucy,” and Mr. Churchill
wheeled it round. “Why you _do_ look quite bright. Miss Endicott, we
must thank you for part of it.”

“I have not done much, I am sure.”

“Oh, Aunt Lucy, have you a protege, or has Miss Endicott kindly
consented to rule you for the nonce? Will my occupation be gone?”

“What nonsense, Winthrop! Miss Endicott came over to spend the day,
taking pity on me. I have been so forlornly lonesome of late.”

“Then I have arrived just in the nick of time, if that word has any
meaning or relation to anything above or under the waters. Let me feel
your pulse. Quite reduced, I must admit. Beef tea and camomile flowers
three times a day. A long walk morning and evening. Cheerful society—a
new bonnet—and—but try that first. My knowledge is not exhausted.”

“Could you take the ride, think, Lucy?” asked Miss Churchill. “Kenton
we will have the large carriage and all go.”

“What conspiracy have you planned?” inquired Winthrop.

“A harmless drive,” returned Miss Lucy mirthfully. “If it looks
suspicious we will leave you at home in Hugo’s charge.”

Hugo was a handsome English hound, as aristocratic as his master.

They all asked and answered questions, drawing Fan within their
beautiful circle by the fine tact of thorough breeding. She was so gay
and charming, and withal natural without any aiming at position or
special notice. Indeed she and Mr. Ogden had two or three passages of
sharpness between them that made their elders laugh.

It came supper time so soon, that Miss Lucy declared gaily she had
been defrauded; the day certainly _was_ shorter than usual.

“Yes,” returned Mr. Churchill, “they are. We have passed the longest
days.”

“Have you? Sometimes I feel as if I were just coming to mine,” and
there was a graver look in her face.

“Aunt Lucy low spirited! Why I thought you were a very princess of
philosophy!”

“One’s heart does fail sometimes.”

“But I am to be married you know, and you are to make me long visits.
I’ll save my buttons for you to sew on, you shall embroider my
initials, and mend my gloves. Will not that be happiness enough?”

“What is your wife to do meanwhile?”

He affected to be puzzled. “Why I suppose she will not _know_ how to do
anything. Is not that the accomplishment of the girl of the period?”

“There may be girls of the semi-colon who do not go quite so far;”
answered Miss Lucy drolly.

Winthrop glanced up at Fan who colored vividly.

“Excuse me, Miss Endicott, I—”

[Illustration: STEPHEN DUNCAN.]

“Winthrop you are not to tease Miss Endicott, nor to classify her,
either. I take her under my especial protection.”

“I lay down my arms at once, Aunt Lucy. I am your most obedient.”

And so it went on with bits of fun and pleasantness cropping out now
and then. Mr. Churchill unbending, Miss Churchill straying from the
little hedge of formalities, sweet as a wild briar blossom. And Lucy
was nearly as bright as Fan.

The carriage came around soon afterwards. Mr. Ogden insisted upon
driving, so the man was dispensed with. The Churchill estate was very
large, including the mountainous track and a good deal of woodland. It
was not a much frequented drive, although Round Hill was one of the
curiosities of the town. But the Churchills and the Garthwaites seemed
to fence it in with their sense of ownership, and it was _not_ common
property like Longmeadow and the Cascades.

deep gloom, shadowed by yonder trees, here a strip of waving grain,
then long sweeps of grassy hillsides broken by clumps of young cedars
or hemlocks. An irregular wooded chain—the mountains, Wachusetts’
people called them, divided us from the quaint little town lying in the
next valley. Here was the delightful opening that appeared more level
by contrast with the tall trees on both sides, and next, symmetrical
Round Hill, in a flood of golden red light, for the sun was going down
between this and the next eminence.

Fan just turned to Miss Lucy and put out her hand. But the eloquent
words and the intense appreciation were in her fluttering color, her
swelling lip and kindling eye, and the simple gesture.

“I knew you would like it;” said Lucy just as quietly.

Miss Churchill looked over at them. Was she thinking of what Mrs.
Endicott had said—how she kept young in her children’s lives? For
Lucy’s face was like a girl’s again.

“I sometimes think there can be nothing in Europe more beautiful,” Miss
Lucy said at length. “It is my Alps. Ah, if one could paint that glow!”

Winthrop glanced back. “I wish you could have seen some pictures in the
Academy, Aunt Lucy;” and then he went on to describe them in an eager
manner, evincing much genuine love for beauty, and a kind of fitness,
for his tone was low and earnest, without any assumption of manishness.

Meanwhile as they wound slowly along, the sky changed from the crimson
gold, to orange, then to a yellow tint, sending out long rays into the
frost-white, not unlike an Aurora. All the edges of the hills were
purple and blue, with a peculiar velvety softness, losing themselves
presently in hazy indistinctness.

“Kenton,” Lucy said, “this place ought to be re-christened. Sunset Hill
would be more appropriate. There is no such enchanting sunset for miles
around.”

“But it isn’t always that,” in his dry humorous way. “And it _is_
always round.”

“Then mine shall be its holiday name, a kind of golden remembrance.”

“It is beautiful;” Miss Churchill said with deep feeling. “Miss
Fanny, your father preached a good sermon last Sunday morning, about
our longing for loveliness and grandeur which was far away, and not
enjoying that right beside us, and our desiring to do some great thing,
waiting years for the opportunity, when we might have made our lives
rich with the small daily deeds that are at our very finger ends. And
how many of us long for Italy when we have clear skies and glowing
sunsets at home that we know nothing about!”

“Because such lives are crowded full to repletion. I sometimes wonder
if we do not have too much instead of not enough? I find a large world
right around here, because I can’t get out comfortably to any larger
one.”

“And because you see the beauty in every thing,” returned Fanny softly.
“It’s just like daily bread, the now, and here. We need not starve
to-day because of a famine coming a hundred years hence.”

Mr. Churchill raised his grave eyes and smiled, just a little. They
moved on quietly again, the wide glory of the twilight heavens falling
gently over, clasping hands with the indistinct outlines of the
beautiful earth. The creek went rippling and winding around, making a
pleasant stir, and the insects began to chirp in low tones as if not
quite sure the night was coming.

“What a delightful day! Though I have not done half the things that
I meant to,” said Miss Lucy as they were nearing home. “We were to
look over those Russian views this afternoon, and I was to show you my
sketches. It is all Winthrop’s fault. We shall have to take the day
over again, Fanny.”

“I cannot say that I am sorry I came, having a high regard for the
truth. But then I _am_ going; and the world will still last;” he
returned.

“That must be our comfort.”

“I wish you and your sister would come over soon, not merely to tea,
but to spend a good long afternoon;” said Miss Churchill. “And I have a
basket of flowers to send home with you.”

“Does Miss Endicott go alone?” Winthrop asked.

“In the carriage—unless you should have the politeness to accompany
her,” answered Miss Churchill rather inconsequently.

“With pleasure—if Aunt Lucy can spare me.”

“I shall march straight to bed, you saucy boy.”

The ladies were helped out. Fanny thought she had better keep right on.
Miss Churchill brought a great basket of fragrance and beauty, and
said she would send the parcel over the next morning, “that is if you
are quite sure that you will not feel patronized,” she whispered.

“No,” returned Fan frankly. “Rose and I will be most grateful.”

Lucy kissed her good by. Miss Churchill’s farewell was a little more
formal, but full of sweet cordiality. The coachman sprang up in his
seat and turned the horses slowly.

Mr. Churchill assisted Lucy up the steps. “What a pretty behaved girl,”
he said. “She is bright and pleasant without being bold or underbred.
And she enjoys everything so thoroughly.”

“She makes one feel young again. She fairly gives of her own abundant
youth.”

In the meanwhile the two rode home together. There was no moon, but the
stars were out by thousands, shining in all their glory. They talked of
the beauty of the night, of the improvements in the town, and he asked
what was going on in the way of entertainment. This was how Fan came to
mention the picnic, and Mr. Ogden was interested in it immediately.

Nelly and the elders were sitting in the wide, airy hall with the lamp
in the back part, making a golden twilight within. Fan set her flowers
in the midst, and all the air was sweet.

Such a lovely day as it had been! The talk and visiting, the dinner and
tea, the two rides,—Miss Churchill and Miss Lucy—the kindly messages to
mamma,—the invitation to tea, and best of all, the thought about papa’s
sermon. Fan had a way of bringing something home from every place for
every body. It was as good as going yourself.

“So papa, dear, it wasn’t my fascination altogether, but a little pinch
of your good seed. It springs up occasionally where you do not expect
it. And now tell me what you have been doing?”

Our day had proved one of the unsatisfactory days.

Mamma had gone out in the morning to make some calls, and found Mrs.
Day’s baby very sick. Edith started from her nap in affright, and while
I went down to soothe her, Stuart had tormented my patient into a fit
of passion, so that he had a headache and could eat no dinner. Then
there had been a steady stream of visitors all the afternoon.

“I didn’t get much of your trimming done,” I said to Fan, “but the
picnic is not until Tuesday.”

“And I can work like a Trojan to-morrow. Oh! mamma and Rose, there is
something else—I hope you will think I have acted rightly about it.”

Then followed an account of the gift.

“I do not see how you could well have done differently. Miss Churchill
was very kind and delicate.”

“Fan,” exclaimed papa as if waking out of a dream—“I think I _do_ see
the good seed. But some things are best to let grow by themselves. If
you poke about the roots and snip off and tie up, you don’t get half
the bloom and beauty. People like the Churchills might bring forth so
much fruit. Perhaps it will come. The same God who made the gourd, made
the century plant. Mother, couldn’t we have a quiet little hymn?”

It was a trick he had when there was any special thing on his mind.
Mamma’s soft playing seemed to smooth out the tangles.

We sang with her, and then kissed each other good night.

The next day was ever so much better. Mamma had talked to both of the
boys, and I think Louis _did_ try to be patient and pleasant. Fan came
in and helped entertain him while we both sewed. The dresses were sent
with a note from Miss Churchill, and mamma thought them extremely
pretty. We finished Fan’s pique all but the button holes, by night.

Just after tea Mrs. Day sent over. Mamma answered the summons and staid
until ten, then she came home to tell us that the poor little life had
gone out here, to blossom brighter elsewhere. She had washed it and
dressed it for the last time, with her tender hands. Mrs. Downs had
come to stay all night, for Mrs. Day was in violent hysterics.

Early Sunday morning the baby was buried. Three little graves in a row,
and only Betty and Jem left. I stopped in Church just a moment to give
thanks on my knees that our little flock were all alive and well.

“I wonder how you can take such an interest in everybody?” Louis said
as I sat with him awhile that evening. “In one way your father and
mother have a duty towards all in the parish, but—I don’t know as I can
_quite_ explain,—you seem to make their troubles and their pleasures
your very own. And some of the people must be—very common, and quite
ignorant—excuse me, but it is so all over the world.”

“Isn’t that the secret of _true_ sympathy? If you were in great sorrow
and went to a friend, would you not like to have the comfort adapted
to your nature, and wants? The other would be asking for bread and
receiving a stone.”

“It is very good of course, really noble. But it would fret me to do
favors for people who did not interest me one bit. Now I can understand
your sister’s enjoying her day at the Churchills, even if she was asked
partly to entertain an invalid. They were refined, agreeable people.
But that she should give up going to ride with Miss Fairlie yesterday
afternoon, to make a bonnet for that woman who lost her baby, and who
wasn’t a bit thankful—”

“She _was_ thankful,” I interposed.

“Stuart went with your sister, and he said she found fault because it
wasn’t the right shape, and because there was ribbon used instead of
crape. I should have smashed up the thing and thrown it into the fire,
and told her to suit herself.”

I laughed a little, the remark was so characteristic.

“We get used to people’s ways after a while,” I said. “Mrs. Day never
is _quite_ satisfied. If a thing had only been a little different. And
very likely next week she will show the bonnet to some neighbor and
praise Fanny’s thoughtfulness and taste. You see no one happened to
think of a bonnet until it was pretty late.”

“But why could she not have been thankful on the spot? It was
ungracious, to say the least.”

“That is her way.”

“I’d get her out of it, or I wouldn’t do any favors for her.”

“I wonder if _we_ are always thankful on the spot, and when the favor
doesn’t _quite_ suit us?”

There was a silence of some moments, then he said in a low tone: “Do
you mean me, Miss Endicott?”

“No, I am not quite as impolite as that. I made my remark in a general
sense.”

“Suppose some one gave you an article that you did not want?”

“If it was from an equal, and I could decline it, granting that it
was perfectly useless, I should do so. But an inferior, or a poorer
person, who might have taken a great deal of pains, deserves more
consideration.”

“Is it not deceitful to allow them to think they have conferred a
benefit upon you?”

“I do not look at it in that light. This person intended a kindness,
and I take it at his or her appraisal. I am obliged for the labor and
love that went into it, the thought prompting it.”

“Oh,” after a silence.

“And doesn’t that make the good fellowship of the world? When equals
exchange small courtesies there is no special merit in it. No
self-sacrifice is required, no lifting up of any one, or no going down.
The world at large is no better or stronger for the example. It is
when we go out of ourselves, make our own patience and generosity and
sympathy larger, that we begin to enjoy the giving and doing.”

“But you can not really like poor, ignorant people?”

“Better sometimes than I can like rich, ignorant people. When you walk
along the roadside you enjoy the clover blooms, the common daisies and
mallows, and every flowering weed. The way gives you its very best.
These blossoms laugh and nod and twinkle in the glad sunshine, and
you are joyous with them. But if a friend who had a large garden and
gardeners in abundance asked you to come, and took you through weedy
grass-grown paths, and gathered for you a bunch of field flowers, you
would not feel so much obliged.”

“Why no.”

“It is the giving of one’s best. It may also mean the ability to
appreciate, when another gives of the best he has.”

“But _can_ you like the work? Pardon me, but it has always seemed to me
a hint of a second or third rate mind when one can be happy with such
common pleasures. There, no doubt I have offended you.”

“If we were always looking for our own perfect satisfaction, it would
not be. But, ‘No man liveth to himself,’ only.”

“Miss Endicott, I don’t wonder you like my brother Stephen. After all,”
rather doubtfully, “isn’t there a good deal of cant preached?”

“Only believe. All the rest will be added,” I said hurriedly.

The church bell was ringing its middle peal. There was a long pause
then it took up a sweet and rather rapid jangle, subsiding into the
slow swells of tender melody. We always called it the middle peal and
began to get ready, as that gave us just time to go to church. I rose
now, and uttered a pleasant good night.

“Say a little prayer for me, if you don’t think I am too wicked;” he
murmured faintly, turning his face away.

How peculiar he was! When I thought him softening, he was always sure
to draw back into his shell again, and his confidences invariably came
unexpectedly. Then too, they puzzled me, I was not fit to cope with
them. They seemed to jar and jangle with the every day smoothness of my
own life.

Mr. Ogden was at church alone that evening, and though the Maynard
girls were there, walked home in our circle. I was going to stay with
Fannie, but Dick Fairlie was on the other side of her, and George and
Allie West swallowed me up in the narrow path.

“I am coming in to-morrow morning to tell you of the picnic plans,”
said Allie as we were about to separate.

“Can’t I come in the evening and hear?” asked Mr. Ogden. “Or am I the
man on the other side?”

“No indeed,” spoke up Allie, “we shall be glad to have you. I will
leave a special message.”

They were a little acquainted with him, having met him at the Maynards
the summer before. The young ladies of that family had declined
participating in the affair.

We heard all the plans on Monday morn. They were to go out to
Longmeadow in wagons and carriages, taking refreshments and
conveniences. There was just a nice party. “The kind of people
who harmonize,” said Miss West. “I never can endure Tom, Dick and
Harry—everybody and his wife.”

“Of course you wouldn’t want everybody in a small party,” I returned.

“I wish you were going, Rose.”

“The Sunday School picnic comes the week after. I could not go to both.”

“This will be ever so much nicer.”

“O, I am not sure. There will be more enjoyment at that, because there
will be so many more to enjoy everything.”

“Your way of thinking! Well, if I was a clergyman’s daughter I should
have to go I suppose. I am glad that I can choose my pleasures. Fanny
Endicott, if Mr. Ogden calls this evening give him my compliments and a
special invitation.”

Fan colored and made some laughing retort.

He did come over with a message from his aunts, asking us to tea on
Thursday evening if it was convenient. Then he wanted to know about the
picnic, and said that he might be expected, sure.

Dick and Kate came over for Fanny. Mrs. Fairlie was in the wagon and
leaned out to make some inquiries about Mr. Duncan. Stuart had taken a
knapsack and started on foot.

I went a few steps further on to fasten up a spray of clematis. Dick
followed.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have gone too;” he said rather crossly.

“Should I have added so very much?”

“I suppose that grand chap of the Churchills’ will be there?” he went
on without noticing my remark.

“Yes. He was invited by Allie West, you know.”

He snapped off a piece of honeysuckle. What was the matter with him
this morning?

Fan came down in her new pique dress, her broad sun hat trimmed
with light blue, and her white parasol lined with the same tint. She
was pretty and stylish enough for any lady’s daughter. Kate was in a
silvery, much be-ruffled poplin, and a jaunty round hat that scarcely
shaded her eyes.

Louis was considerably improved that day. He walked into the next room,
arranged some flowers that I brought him, and was quite cheerful. He
wanted very much to go down stairs, but mamma thought he had better
not, so he acquiesced pleasantly.

“If you are no worse to-morrow you may try it,” she promised.

Fan had a royal time, though she declared she was half tired to death.

Up in our room she told me all the particulars.

“Everything was just lovely! Servants to do the work, make fires and
coffee, and spread tables, while we sat, or walked in the shade, or
rambled through the woods. We had the violins and quadrilles and
gallops and laughing, and may be a little flirting. It was absolutely
funny to see young Ogden.”

“Oh, Fan, I hope you didn’t—”

“My dear little grandmother, I am afraid I did, just the least bit. You
see Kate and Allie West tried so hard for Mr. Ogden, and he kept by my
side _so_ easily. I had only to look. And Dick Fairlie was like a bear.
Something has vexed him.”

“I thought he was cross this morning. But, oh, Fan, I wouldn’t have you
do any thing to—to displease the Churchills.”

“And I wouldn’t, honestly Rose. This is nothing beyond summer pastime.
Why can’t we all be bright and nice and social? It is a humbug to think
of everybody’s falling in love. I don’t believe young people _would_
think of it, only some one is afraid and speaks before the time, making
a tangle of it all. I do not expect any one to fall in love with me—at
present.”




CHAPTER IX.