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diff --git a/42408-0.txt b/42408-0.txt index 5cf7022..e3fc13a 100644 --- a/42408-0.txt +++ b/42408-0.txt @@ -1,37 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Growing Up, by Jennie M. Drinkwater - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Growing Up - A Story of the Girlhood of Judith Mackenzie - -Author: Jennie M. Drinkwater - -Release Date: March 24, 2013 [EBook #42408] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GROWING UP *** - - - - -Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42408 *** GROWING UP @@ -10686,359 +10653,4 @@ illustrated, price 75 cents. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Growing Up - A Story of the Girlhood of Judith Mackenzie - -Author: Jennie M. Drinkwater - -Release Date: March 24, 2013 [EBook #42408] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GROWING UP *** - - - - -Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - GROWING UP - - A Story of the Girlhood of - - JUDITH MACKENZIE - - - By JENNIE M. DRINKWATER - - - "Each year grows more sacred - with wondering expectation." - - --Phillips Brooks. - - - A. L. BURT COMPANY, - PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. - - - - - Copyright, 1894, - - By A. I. Bradley & Co. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - I. The Horn Book - II. Square Root and Other Things - III. Was this the End? - IV. Bensalem - V. Daily Bread and Daily Will - VI. The Best Thing in the World - VII. A Small Disciple - VIII. This Way or That Way? - IX. The Flowers That Came to the Well - X. The Last Apple - XI. How Jean Had an Outing - XII. A Secret Errand - XIII. The Two Blessed Things - XIV. An Afternoon with an Adventure in It - XV. "First at Antioch" - XVI. Aunt Affy's Experience - XVII. The Story of a Key - XVIII. Judith's Turning Point - XIX. A Morning with a Surprise in It - XX. Judith's Afternoon - XXI. Marion's Afternoon - XXII. Aunt Affy's Evening - XXIII. Voices - XXIV. "I Always Thought You Cared" - XXV. Cousin Don - XXVI. Aunt Affy's Faith and Judith's Foreign Letter - XXVII. His Very Best - XXVIII. A New Anxiety - XXIX. Judith's Future - XXX. A Talk and What Came of It - XXXI. About Women - XXXII. Aunt Affy's Picture - XXXIII. Nettie's Outing - XXXIV. "Sensations" - - - - - GROWING UP - - - - -I. THE HORN BOOK. - - - "I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, - And the horn book I learned on my poor mother's knee. - In truth, I suspect little else do we learn - From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn, - Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, - What we learned in the horn book of childhood." - - --Owen Meredith. - -Judith's mother sat in her invalid chair before the grate; she looked -very pretty to Judith with her hair curling back from her face, and -the color of her eyes and cheeks brought out by the becoming wrapper; -the firelight shone upon the mother; the fading light in the west -shone upon the girl in the bay-window, the yellow head, the blue -shoulders bent over the letter she was writing. - -"Judith, come and tell me pictures." - -About five o'clock in the afternoon, her mother's weariest-time, -Judith often told her mother pictures. - -The picture-telling began when Judith was a little girl; one afternoon -she said: "Mother, I'll tell you a picture; shut your eyes." - -It was in this very room; her mother leaned back in her wheel-chair, -lifted her feet to the fender, shut her eyes, and a small -seven-year-old "told" her "picture." - -Telling pictures had been the amusement of the one, and the rest of -the other, many, many weary times since. - -As the child grew, her pictures grew. - -"Yes, mother," said the girl in the bay window, "I've just finished my -letter; I've written Aunt Affy the longest letter and told her all you -said." - -"Read it to me, please?" - -Standing near the window to catch the light, Judith read aloud the -letter. - -At times it was quaint and unchildish; then, forgetting herself, -Judith had run on with her ready pen, and, with pretty phrases, told -Aunt Affy the exciting events in her own life, and the quiet story of -her mother's days. - -"We are coming as soon as spring comes," she ended, "mother is coming -to get strong, and I am coming to help you and learn about your -village. Beautiful Bensalem. Mother says I am learning the lessons -taught out of school; but how I would like to go to school with Jean -Draper in your big, queer school-room." As she turned towards her -mother, the firelight and the light in her face were all the lights in -the room. - -The home of these two people was in two rooms; one was the kitchen, -the other was bed-room, school-room, parlor. It was a month since her -mother had walked through the two rooms; several times a day Judith -pushed the wheel-chair through the rooms. She called these times her -mother's excursions. Last winter her mother wiped dishes, sewed a -little, and once she made cake; this winter she had done little -besides teach Judith. The child was such an apt scholar that her -mother said she needed no teacher--she always taught herself. - -Judith loved housekeeping; she loved everything she had to do, she -loved everything she was growing up to do; her mother she loved best -of all. - -She lived all day long in a very busy world; the pictures helped fill -it. - -"Now, mother, shut your eyes," she began, gleefully. - -[Illustration: "Now, mother, shut your eyes," said Judith gleefully.] - -The eyes shut themselves, the restless hands held themselves still; -there would not be many more weary days, but Judith did not know that. - -Judith waited a moment until she could think. - -"Mother, how do pictures come?" - -"Bring me that paper Don brought last night; I saw something to show -you, then forgot it." - -Her mother turned the leaves of the paper and indicated the paragraph -with her finger. Judith read it aloud:-- - -"Some years ago I chanced to meet Sir Noël Paton on the shores of a -beautiful Scottish loch, all alone, with an open Bible in his hand. He -put his finger between his pages, as he rose to greet me, and still -kept it there as we talked. Supposing he might be devoting a quiet -hour to devotional reading in the secluded spot, I made no remark on -the nature of his studies; but after a few minutes he observed, with a -glance downwards, 'You see, I am getting a new picture.' He then -proceeded to explain that it was his habit, before settling down to -his winter's work, to walk about in the neighborhood of his summer -residence, wherever that might be, with his Bible in his hand, seeking -for an inspiration. Sometimes the inspiration came almost immediately; -at others, he was weeks before he could please himself. The following -spring appeared 'The Good Shepherd,' one of the finest of his works." - -Her mother made no remark; she often waited for Judith's thought. - -"I think Aunt Affy sees things through the Bible, mother," said -Judith, speaking her first thought. - -"I know she does." - -"I see a face," began the picture-teller, dropping down on the rug, -and resting her head against the padded arm of the chair. - -"You love faces," was the quick response. - -"And voices, and hands, and hair. This face I see is a _good_ -face--but, then, I do not often see ugly faces--the eyes tell the truth, -the lips tell the truth; perhaps it isn't a handsome face; the -forehead is low, rather square, the eye-brows dark and heavy; the eyes -underneath are a kind of grayish blue, not _blue_ blue, like -mine, and they are looking at me very seriously; the nose is quite a -large nose, and the mouth large, too, with such splendid teeth; the -upper lip is smooth, and the cheeks and chin all shaven; the hair is -blackest black; now the eyes smile, and it looks like another face; I -do not know which face I like better. What is the name of my picture?" - -"Strong and true." - -"That is a good name," said the picture-teller, satisfied, "and who is -it?" - -"Our dear Cousin Don," was the reply with loving intonation. - -"You always guess." - -"Because your pictures are so true. I like to look at people and -places through your eyes." - -Judith smiled, and looking a moment into the fire, began again: "A -fence, an old fence, and a terrace, not green, but rather dried up, -then a lawn, with a horse-chestnut, a big, big horse-chestnut tree on -each side the brick path, and then up three steps to a long piazza: -the house is painted white, with white shutters instead of blinds, and -there are three dormer windows in the roof; these windows make the -third story. I wish I could see inside, but I never did. Perhaps I -shall some day. 'Some day' is my fairyland, and may you be there to -see. That day Cousin Don came to take me walking he took me past the -place; he said some day when you could spare me longer he would take -me in, he wanted me to see the brown girl who lives there; but there -she stood on the piazza, the door was open and she was going in; she -_was_ a brown girl, all in brown with a brown hat and brown -feather; a brown face too--I love browns; she happened to turn and she -tossed a laugh down to Cousin Don. It was a pretty laugh, with -something in it I didn't understand; it was a -laugh--that--didn't--tell--everything. I told Don so. He said: 'Nonsense!' -I don't know what he meant." - -"That was Marion Kenney, and the old house on Summer Avenue," guessed -Judith's mother, who knew the story of the brown girl from Don's -enthusiastic recitals. - -Her mother's voice was more rested; Judith pondered again. - -"That was a city picture; this is a country picture. It is the -beautiful, beautiful country, even if the grass is dead, and the trees -bare; it is the February country in New Jersey; there are clouds, and -clouds, and clouds overhead; and a brook with the sun shining on it, -and a bridge with a stone wall on each side, a little bit of a stone -wall, and stone arches where the water flows through; perhaps it -rushes because the snow is melting so fast; there's a garden with no -flowers in it yet, but there are flower stalks, and bushes, and -bushes; and a path up to the kitchen door, for the garden is down in a -hollow; the kitchen shines, it is so clean, and _smells_, oh, how -it does smell of graham bread, and hot molasses cake, and cup -custards, and apple pie--but we can't _smell_ in a picture," she -laughed. - -"I can--in your pictures," said her mother, echoing the laugh very -softly. - -"And the dearest old sitting-room--Aunt Rody will call it 'the room' as -if it were the only room in the house; there's a rag carpet on the -floor--Aunt Rody _dotes_ on rag carpets; so would I if it were not -for the endless sewing of the rags--and there's a chair with rockers, -and on the top of the back of it a gilded house and trees almost -rubbed off, and on the back a calico cushion tied on with red dress -braid, and a calico cushion in the bottom, and the dearest old lady -sits in it and sews, and talks, and reads the Bible and the magazines; -there's a chair without rockers for the old lady who never rocks or -does easy pleasant things, and hates it when other people, especially -little girls, do any easy pleasant thing; and there's another chair, -like an office chair, with a leather cushion for the dear old man with -a rosy face like a rosy apple, and a bald head on the top, and long -white whiskers that he keeps so nice they shine like silver, and make -you never mind when he wants to kiss you; and there's a high mantel -with a whole world of curious things on it that came out of a hundred -years ago, and a lounge with a shaggy dog on a cushion on one end of -it--how Aunt Rody _lets_ him is a wonder to me--and a round table -with piles of the 'New York Observer' on it. And just now the sweetest -lady in the world in her wine-colored wrapper is lying on the lounge -and the little girl in blue is flying about helping Aunt Affy and Aunt -Rody get supper--O, mother," with a break in her voice, "how I -_ache_ to get you there and take care of you there; Cousin Don -says it is the best place in the world for you and me,--we would grow -fresh and green and send out oxygen like all the green things in -Bensalem. I think I'd like to grow green and send out oxygen." - -"Judith, you and I are always in the best place--for us." - -"Then," said Judith, laughing, "I'd like a place not quite so good for -us--only just as good as Bensalem." - -"When I was a little girl, thirty years ago, the room was just the -same, only Doodles was another Doodles, and Aunt Affy's curls were not -gray, and Uncle Cephas was not bald or white--his whiskers were red -then, and he was there off and on--and the other aunties came and -went--and Aunt Becky died--the friskiest Aunt Becky that ever lived. I -want my little girl to grow up in the dear old house, with not a stain -of the world upon her; I want to think of my little girl there with -Uncle Cephas and Aunt Affy." - -Judith understood; her mother had told her she would be there without -her mother; but that was to be years hence--sorrow was a long, long way -off to-night to the girl who must hope or her heart would break; she -brought her mother's fingers to her lips and kissed them; she did not -worry her mother now-a-days even by kissing her lips or hair. - -Cousin Don said to her that afternoon he took her to walk that she -must not hang over her mother, or kiss the life out of her, and above -all, never cry or moan when she talked about leaving her "alone." -"Nothing makes her so strong as to see you brave," he said, watching -the effect of his caution upon her listening face. - -She had tried to be brave ever since. - -"You can make pictures and see me there, mother," she said brightly, -with a catch in her breath. - -"I do--when I lie awake in the night, and give thanks." - -"Tell me over again about when you were a little girl, there," she -coaxed. - -Over and over again she had listened to the ever-new story of her -mother's childhood and youth in Bensalem; Aunt Rody was the dragon, -Aunt Affy the angel, Uncle Cephas a helper in every difficulty, and -all the village a world where something strange and fascinating was -always happening. - -"It was a very happy home for me when my father died and my mother -took me there; she died before I was twelve; and then twelve years I -was Aunt Affy's girl; then your father took me away," her mother said -with the memory of the years in her voice and eyes. - -"I wonder if somebody will come and take me away, or whether I shall -stay forever and ever like Aunt Affy and Aunt Rody," Judith wondered -in her expectant voice. - -"If somebody comes--if our Father in Heaven sends somebody as good and -gentle and wise as your own father, I shall be glad of it up in -Heaven, I think. You do not remember your father; in his picture he is -like Don--Don is your father's brother's son; your fathers were much -alike. Your father was only a clerk, his salary was never large; Don's -father was a business man, he died rich and left his only son a -fortune; but your father and I never longed for money--Don has always -given me money as his father did; he said you and I had a right to it. -It has never been hard to take money from Don--he will be always kind -to you; he thinks he has a right to you; you are the only children of -the two brothers; they were only two--they never had a sister. Now you -know all about your ancestry on both sides, I think; your grandfather -and grandmother Mackenzie were born in Scotland; they died before you -were born. Aunt Affy will be always telling you about the 'Sparrow -girls.' My mother was a Sparrow girl. Just a year ago we were in that -dear old home." - -"I was twelve then--I had my birthday there; perhaps I shall have -another birthday there in April. Aunt Affy wants us to come so much. I -can take better care of you now because I am older and I must not have -lessons to make you tired; we will have a long vacation; I will only -write poems for you and you needn't even take the trouble to make the -measure right. Aunt Rody said I was a silly baby to be always hanging -about you; but she will see how I have grown up. Don says I am a -little woman. Now I'll tell you a picture. Shut your eyes, again." - -The tear-blinded eyes were shut again; Judith had been looking into -the fire as she talked; she was afraid to look up into her mother's -eyes. It was being brave to look into the fire. - -"I see a room up-stairs, a room with a slanting roof and only one -window; the window looks down into the garden; it has a green paper -shade tied up with a cord; there is a strip of rag-carpet before the -bed, that is all the carpet there is; and there's a funny old -wash-stand with a blue bowl sunk down into a hole on the top, and a -towel on the rail of the wash-stand with a red border--in winter a pipe -comes up in the stove-pipe hole from the big stove in the -sitting-room, but there's ice in the pitcher very often; there's a -bureau with a cracked looking-glass on the top, an old bureau, -everything is old but the little girl kneeling on the rag-carpet rug -beside the bed, with her head on the red and white quilt, saying her -prayers. That little girl is _you_, mother, a sweet, obedient -little girl, that hasn't a will of her own, and tempers, and tantrums -like me." - -"I like to think that sweet little girl is you." - -"Then it _is_ me; I've grown sweet in a hurry," Judith laughed, -"and left all my tempers and tantrums far behind." - -"There's another T to go with them--_temptations_--through which -you grow strong." - -Not seeming to heed, but in reality holding her mother's thought in -her heart Judith ran merrily on: "And I see a church, with a little -green in front, and posts to hitch the horses, the two church doors -are wide open, for in the picture it is Sunday morning; Aunt Rody is -in the head of a pew in the body of the church, and Aunt Affy sits -next, and Uncle Cephas is next the door, and there's a girl between -Aunt Affy and Uncle Cephas, a girl fifteen years old and her hair is -braided, not in long, babyish curls--" - -"Oh, my little girl, wear your curls as long as you can, because -mother loves them," her mother urged, bending forward to touch the -soft, bright hair. - -"Then her hair _is_ curled, and she is trying to be good and -listen. Perhaps she likes sermons--she looks so; in the picture the -sermon is like the Bible stories you tell me when we read together--I -_wish_ ministers told Bible stories. And there's the sweetest -singing; it is like Marion Kenney's singing; she sings like a bird, -Don says; there are girls and boys all over the church, for the -minister in the picture knows how to tell Bible stories to boys and -girls and make them as real as the people and things in Summer Avenue -and Bensalem; just as naughty and just as good. Jean Draper is -there--in the pew behind me. Why, mother," bringing herself back to the -present and turning to look into her mother's face, "Jean Draper was -never in the steam cars, or on a ferry-boat in all her life--she has -never been in New York or any where, only to Dunellen, which they call -'town,' and she walks there, or rides with her father. She wants to go -somewhere as much as I want to go to boarding-school. It's the dream -of her life, as boarding-school is my dream." - -"Aunt Affy and Cousin Don will decide about boarding-school. Cousin -Don and I have talked about it, and I will tell Aunt Affy what I think -about it," her mother decided with an unusual touch of firmness. - -"But I wouldn't leave _you_, mother, for all the boarding-schools -in the world." - -"And I wouldn't let you for all the schools in the world." - -"Well, it's only a dream, like Jean Draper's outing. You like pictures -better than dreams. I think Don's friend, Roger Kenney, is the -minister in the pulpit; Don said he had preached there almost all -winter, coming home every Tuesday--Monday he visits the people. Don is -sure Bensalem will give him a call. Uncle Cephas likes him so much, -and Uncle Cephas is an elder. Now, here's another picture: on the same -side of the street as the church, with only the church-yard and the -locust grove between, it is the dear, dainty Queen Anne parsonage--only -two years old, and so new and pretty; Jean Draper went with me through -it--there was nobody there then--and nobody has lived there all this -year; there's a furnace in the cellar like a city house, and a -bay-window in the study, and a pretty hall with stained-glass windows, -and a cunning kitchen, a cunning sitting-room, and sliding doors into -the parlor, and a piazza in the front, and at the side--and out every -window is the beautiful country. I hope I may go again. Mother, you -like this picture?" she asked earnestly, "that house is another dream -of mine. O, mother," with a comical little cry, "I'm so full of -dreams, I'm full to bursting." - -"I like that picture. I like to think of Don's friend there living a -strong life; he has no worldly ambition. Don says it has been wholly -rooted out of him. He was very fine in college, working beyond his -strength--eaten up with ambition. Then he had an experience; Don said -the fountains of the great deep were broken up in him, and he came out -of it another man--as humble and teachable as any child. Don is afraid -he will go there and be satisfied to stay." - -"Now, here's another face," said Judith, with a new reverence for -Don's friend: "brown eyes, and a brown curly beard, and a brown head, -with laughing eyes, unless he is talking about grave things--he doesn't -make you afraid to be good, but to love to. Still, I am so afraid he -will _talk_ to me some day and ask me questions; I don't know how -to answer questions. Now, you know, I mean Don's friend, Mr. Kenney." - -"Your pictures are very cheery. I hope you may tell some to poor old -Aunt Rody." - -"I shall never dare. She snaps at me. She shuts me up and makes me -forget what I want to say. Her eyes go _through_ me. I don't love -Aunt Rody; I don't _want_ to love Aunt Rody. She doesn't like -baby girls," contended Judith, shaking her yellow head. "She doesn't -like me and Doodles. We are shaggy and a nuisance." - -"You will not always stay a baby girl." - -"No; I want to grow up faster; I wish I might braid my hair. I want to -write books and paint real pictures on canvas to earn money to take -you to Switzerland. I'm sure you would get well in Switzerland. I see -the pictures I would paint, and I think the books; but I am so slow -about it. Sweeping, and washing dishes, and doing errands, do not help -at all," she said with a laugh that had no discouragement in it. - -"They all help. Every obedient thing helps. You must grow up to your -book and your picture; living a sweet, joyous, truthful, obedient life -is growing up to it. The best books and the best pictures are the -expression of the truest and sweetest life; the strongest and wisest -life; am I talking over your head, dear?" - -"No," laughed Judith, "down into my heart." - -"My little girl has been her mother's companion all these years; I -fear I sometimes forget that you are only a little girl. But if you -have grown old, you will grow young. I wish I could find a girl friend -for you. But God knows all the girls in the world, and he will find -one for you. If my daughter remembers all her life but one truth her -mother ever said to her, I hope it may be this: The true life is the -life hid with Christ; no other life _is_ life, it is playing at -life; this life is safe, still, hidden away, growing stronger every -day; the expression of it, the making it speak he will take care of -every hour of the day. You cannot understand this now--my words tell -you so little, but they will come back to you." - -"I will write it down," promised Judith, who loved to write things -down, "and date it February fifteenth. Told in the Firelight. I know -what it means better than I can say it. I often know what things mean, -but I cannot say it." - -"Any more pictures?" suggested her mother, in a voice as bright as -Judith's own. - -"An old face with pink cheeks and a long gray curl behind each ear, -the softest step and the kindest voice--but I always forget and put -sounds in my pictures. Those sounds are always in my picture of Aunt -Affy." - -"You have not made a picture of Aunt Rody." - -"I don't like to tell a picture of Aunt Rody. She is so old, so -old--and she isn't happy--and I don't believe she's good. If it were not -for Aunt Rody I should think all old people were good; that all you -had to do to be good was to grow up and grow old." - -"She is not happy. Once, years and years ago, so long ago that almost -everybody has forgotten, she had a bitter disappointment." - -"What was it about, mother?" asked the girl, who always wove a -love-story into the stories she planned as she stepped about the -kitchen, or darned and mended the household wear. - -"She was ready to be married--she learned that the man she loved--and -Aunt Rody _could_ love in those days--was a very, very bad man; he -deceived her; it did not break her heart, or soften it; it made it -hard. Unless we forgive, our hearts grow hard; she could not forgive; -she has said that she does not know how to forgive. Only in forgiving -do our hearts grow like God's heart. He is always forgiving." - -"I forgave somebody once," remembered Judith; "mother," with a start, -"I do not always forgive Aunt Rody when she is ugly to me; if I do not -will I have a hard heart?" - -"Yes. That spot toward Aunt Rody will grow harder and harder. You -cannot love God with the part of your heart that does not forgive." - -"Oh, deary _me_," groaned Judith, springing up. "Will you like -milk-toast to-night? And prunes? Don says I know how to cook prunes." - -"Perhaps he will come to supper." - -"Then he must have a chop. Mother, I like to keep house. It's easy. -It's easier than forgiving," she said, with her merry little laugh, -and a deep-down heartache. - - - - -II. SQUARE ROOT AND OTHER THINGS. - - - "Let never day or night unhallowed pass; - But still remember what the Lord hath done." - - --Shakespeare. - -"Judith, would you like to go up to Lottie's room for an hour?" - -Judith's mother was still sitting before the grate with her feet -lifted to the fender; the tall figure of Donald Mackenzie stood behind -the wheel chair, bending, with his folded arms upon the back of the -chair. - -"Yes, mother," replied the voice from the kitchen, a busy, -pre-occupied voice. - -Don had wiped the dishes for her, brought up coal, taken down ashes, -and declared that his three chops were the finest he had ever eaten. - -"Lottie and her books just went up," said Judith standing in the -door-way, and untying her kitchen apron. "Don, will you call me when -you go?" - -"Yes, Bluebird; I can stay but an hour; I have to call for Miss -Marion; she has gone to a King's Daughters' meeting, and I told her I -would stop on my way home; I have to pass the house," he explained in -reply to an impatient movement in the wheel chair. Judith went out -softly and ran lightly up the stairway. - -"Aunt Hilda," began the penitent voice above Aunt Hilda's head, "I -have come to confess." - -"Don, I wish I had warned you." - -"Why didn't you?" he asked, miserably. - -"Because I thought you had common sense." - -"It is a case of common sense." - -Judith's fingers tapped lightly on the third story door. - -"Come in," called a girlish voice. - -"Are you studying? May I stay and study too?" - -"You are always ahead of me," grumbled Lottie. - -"Because I take longer lessons, and mother has no one else to teach. -But she was tired to-day, and I couldn't ask her about that dreadful -thing in square root. Did you find out?" - -"Yes, and it's as easy as mud." - -Both girls laughed. - -"Bensalem mud isn't easy; you think you are going through to China -every spring when the roads are bad." - -Judith had brought her pencil and pad; for half an hour the girls put -their heads together over square root; then Lottie Kindare threw her -book across the small room to the bed. - -"Judith, I know something new to tell you; Grace Marvin told me to-day -at recess, and once it came true. I'll show you." - -On the lowest shelf of the little book-case Lottie found her Bible; it -was dusty, but she did not notice that. - -With their chairs very near together, the Bible in Lottie's lap, the -girls sat silent a moment; Judith's luminous eyes were filled with -expectation. - -"Now wish for what you want most," commanded Lottie, impressively. - -"I wish most of all for mother to be strong enough to go to Bensalem -with Aunt Affy when she comes next week." - -Lottie colored and looked uncomfortable; this evening before she came -up stairs, her mother had told her that the doctor had stopped down -stairs to say that Mrs. Mackenzie must be urged to make no effort to -go into the country; it was too late. - -"Not that; something else," said Lottie, impatiently, "not such a -serious thing." - -"But I want that _most_," said Judith, piteously. - -"Then choose what you want second." - -"Then I want second to go to boarding-school." - -"That's good," exclaimed Lottie relieved, "now, shut your eyes and -open the Bible and put your finger down, and if it touches: '_And it -came to pass_,' it _will_ come to pass." - -"How queer," said Judith delighted, "what an easy way to find out -things. I wish I had known it before." - -"So do I, for then I might have known that I _couldn't_ have had -a navy blue silk for Christmas; and I hoped for it until the very -day." - -Without any misgiving, Judith closed her eyes and opened the Bible; -her heart beat fast, her fingers trembled; she dared not open her eyes -and see. - -"No, you haven't your wish," said Lottie's disappointed voice; "it -reads: 'And a cubit on one side, and a cubit on the other side'--that's -dreadful and horrid; I'm so sorry, Ju." - -So was Judith; sorry and frightened. - -"Now, I'll try. I wish for a gold chain like Grace Marvin's," she -said, bravely. Judith looked frightened; but what was there to be -afraid of? It was not like fortune-telling; it was the _Bible_. - -Judith watched her nervously; she was disappointed if it said in the -Bible that she could never go to boarding-school; but, oh, how glad -she was that she had not asked the Bible if her mother would ever be -strong enough to go to Bensalem. She could not have borne nothing but -a cubit about that. She would hate a "cubit" after this. - -"There!" cried Lottie jubilantly, "I have it. See." - -Over the fine print near Lottie's finger, Judith bent and read: -"_And it came to pass_." - -"Isn't that splendid?" said Lottie, "but I wish you had got it. Do you -want to try again?" - -"No," hesitated Judith, "it frightens me, and I'm afraid it's wicked." - -"Wicked," laughed Lottie, "how can it be wicked?" - -"I cannot explain how--but I'm sure mother would not like it." - -"But your mother is so particular," explained Lottie, "everybody -isn't. She thinks there's a right and wrong to everything." - -"But _isn't_ there?" persisted Judith. - -"No," contended Lottie boldly, but with a fear at her heart; "there -isn't about this. This is right." - -"I hope it is," said Judith, brightening. - -"We tried it at noon recess one day, and John Kenney came and looked -on. He didn't say what he thought." - -"Who is John Kenney?" - -"The brightest and handsomest boy in the High School. He's up head in -Latin and everything. He was at my New Year's Eve party. Don't you -remember? He sang college songs." - -"He's the big boy that found a chair for me, and gave me ice cream the -second time. I shall always remember _him_," said Judith, -fervently. "I did not know his name; when I think about him, I call -him John. John is my favorite name for a man; it has a strong sound, a -generous sound, and I like the color of it." - -"The _color_," repeated Lottie, amazed. - -"Don't names have color and sound to you?" asked Judith, surprised. -"John is the deepest crimson to me, a glowing crimson. John belongs to -self-sacrifice and generous deeds. John is a hero and a saint." - -Lottie laughed noisily. Judith was the queerest girl. Her -_things_ were always getting mixed up with _thoughts_. -Lottie did not care for thoughts. School, dress, parties, -Sunday-school, summer vacations, John Kenney, dusting and making cake, -jolly times with her father, and home times and making calls with her -mother, were only "things" to this girl of fifteen; if there were -"thoughts" in them, she missed the thoughts. She was daring and -handsome; Judith admired her because she was so different from -herself. - -"I don't believe my mother would care," said Lottie, honestly, as she -laid her Bible in its place upon her book-shelf. - -"But your mother is different," pleaded Judith. - -"Yes, my mother is well; I suppose that makes the difference." - -With a sigh over her disappointment, for, somehow, she thought the -Bible could not be wrong, Judith went back to pad and pencil and -another hard example in square root. - -"Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home," chanted Don's voice in the hall -below. - -"He has a different name for you every time," said Lottie. "Don't tell -your mother if it will worry her." - -"I never tell her things that worry her," replied Judith; "I've been -waiting three months to tell her that I have burnt a hole in the front -of my red cashmere and do not know how to mend it. When I go to -Sunday-school she sees me with my coat on, and after Sunday-school I -hurry and put on a white apron." - -With her arithmetic and pad, and a very grave face, Judith hastened -down stairs. - -"Your mother is full of hope about Bensalem," comforted cousin Don; "I -have said good-bye, for I expect to sail for Genoa on Saturday. She -gave me your photograph to take with me. I will write to you at -Bensalem; and if anybody ever hurts you, write to me quick and I'll -come home and slay them with my little hatchet." - -"Are you going--so soon?" she asked, in an unchildish way; "what will -mother do without you?" - -"She will have you and Aunt Affy. I wasn't going so soon, but I found -it is better. Kiss your cousin Don." - -"Shall you stay _long_?" - -"Long enough to go to London to buy me a wife," he laughed; "kiss your -cousin Don." - -She kissed her cousin Don with eyes so filled with tears that she did -not see the tears in his eyes. The street door fastened itself behind -him; in the quiet street she heard his quick step on the pavement. - -Her mother was sitting in the firelight with her head resting upon her -hand. - -"Mother, Don's _gone_," burst out Judith. - -"Yes, for a while. He will never forget his little cousin." - -"Genoa is a long way off." - -"Only a few days' travel. It is good for him to go. He is engaged to -do some work on a paper, and he has always desired to see the world -afoot. It is good for him," Don's Aunt Hilda repeated. - -"But it isn't good for us, mother." - -"I hope it is not bad for us.--But I would be glad for him not to -go--just yet," she sighed. - -"Will Miss Marion, his brown girl, like it?" inquired Judith, -unexpectedly. - -"She is not--why do you say that?" - -"I don't know, I saw her; I shouldn't _think_ he would like to go -and leave us all," said Don's little cousin, chokingly, keeping back -the tears. - -"He has a heartache to-night, poor boy. Now, little nurse, mother's -tired. We will have prayer and go early to bed." - - - - -III. "WAS THIS THE END?" - - - "The worst is not - So long as we can sing: _This is the worst_." - - --Shakespeare. - -The two parlors were swept and dusted; Marion Kenney enjoyed the -Friday sweeping; she stood in the center of the back parlor, -cheese-cloth duster in hand, taking a satisfied survey of the two -comfortable, old-fashioned rooms. - -"Well, you _are_ picturesque!" exclaimed a voice from the doorway of -the back parlor. - -With all her twenty-one years, Marion Kenney was girlish enough to -give a swift, shy look the length of the rooms to the long mirror -between the windows in the front parlor. But picturesque was -only--picturesque. - -"I don't see what a girl has to dress herself in furbelows for," he -went on, ardently, and with evident embarrassment, "when there's -nothing more becoming than the housekeeping costume; you are as -bewitching in that red sweeping-cap as in your most fashionable -headgear." - -"I like my morning dresses, too," she said, with a flutter of breath -and color, "perhaps because I'm nothing but a humdrum girl at home." - -"The humdrum girl is getting to be the girl of the age," he ran on, -his words tumbling over each other in the desire to say, for once in -his life, the least harmful thing; "all her education tends to bring -her down, or up, to the humdrum, if you mean the hum of housekeeping -ways. With a sensible education, literary and musical tastes (not -talents), a sweet temper, a pretty manner, and the tact that brings -out the best in a man, if that is humdrum"--he broke off abruptly, for -he had kindled a light in her face that he had no right to see. - -"Have I told you about my little cousin Judith? But I know I have. -She's a womanly little thing--too womanly. She's the sweetest prophecy -of a woman. Oh, I remember I promised to take you to see my Aunt -Hilda. But that's another thing to be laid over. If I live to keep all -my promises I shall live forever." - -"Don't say that," she urged, "you are not just to yourself. That is -the only promise you have failed to keep to me, and there's time -enough for that." - -"I fear not," he answered, seriously, "she is going away, and so am -I." - -He came to her and laid the photograph in her hand. - -"Oh, how sweet!" was Marion's quick exclamation. - -"It _is_ sweet; but she is better than sweet; she has courage." - -"The eyes are too sad for such a girl--how old is she?" - -"Nearly thirteen. I took her to New York for a day's outing, and we -had the picture taken. She was anxious about leaving her mother so -long; the people in the house were with Aunt Hilda, but Lottie, the -girl in the house, is a flighty thing, and Judith was not trusting -her. I saw the look, but I couldn't hinder it. It will go about -through Europe with me. Did Roger tell you last night--I asked him -to--that I'm off for my long-talked-of tour around the world?" - -"_No_," replied Marion, startled out of her self-command. - -"Perhaps he came home late. I wanted to prepare you. It is not so -sudden in my thoughts. But I always do things suddenly after years of -thinking about them. My father wanted me to do this. He said if I were -not careful, money and literary tastes would make me an idle dog. That -set of Ruskin in my room I have left for you. You have made my winter -here so home-like, so refreshingly 'humdrum,' that I don't know how to -thank you. When Roger begged me to come Thanksgiving Day I feared that -I would be one too many, but you all took me in so naturally that I -feel as if I had grown up in your old house with you and Roger. It's -awfully hard to go, now I've come to the point; somehow I hated my -ticket as soon as I took it into my hand. But I knew Aunt Hilda and -Judith were going to Bensalem, and I cannot be with them there. -But--you will write to me?" he asked, pausing in his rush of words. - -He had vowed that he would not speak of letters, but the unconscious -appeal of her attitude, the look that he felt in the eyes that could -not lift themselves had given his heart an ache, that, the next -instant, he hated her for making him feel. What right had she to hold -him so? He was Roger's friend. He had only been kind, and frank and -considerate toward her, and grateful, because she had touched his life -with a touch like healing--he was a better fellow than he was last -winter; he had told her one confidential Sunday twilight that he -almost wanted to be a Christian. - -"When will you--come back?" she faltered, speaking her uppermost -thought. - -"Oh, I don't know," he answered, roughly. "They may keep me there -years, if I do well for the paper--or I may study there--Judith and her -mother may bring me home--I have promised Aunt Hilda to take Judith for -my sister; that is a rousing responsibility for a bachelor like me. I -have been near them this winter, which was one of my reasons for -coming here. Now I think of it, perhaps it would have been better if I -had never come." - -"_I think it would._" - -The slow, impressive words uttered themselves. She heard them as if -another voice had spoken them. They told the whole truth, the whole, -terrible, sorrowful truth, and he knew it. - -"Good-bye," she said, with a flash of defiance. - -"Good-bye," he said, not seeing the hand held firmly toward him. - -"I will not write to you--you have no right to ask it." - -"No, I have not," he answered humbly, "I have no right to anything; -not even to ask you to become my wife." - -She lifted her proud eyes; her lips framed the words that her tongue -refused to speak. - -"I beg your pardon. I hardly know what I said." - -"It is hardly necessary to tell me that." - -"And you will not write to me?" - -"No." - -"I am unhappy enough," he blundered, "I never thought our happy winter -would end like this. I did not mean it to end like this." - -It was ended then. She herself had ended it. He would never hear the -new music she was practicing for him; they would not read together the -"Essays of Elia" he had given her last week; she could never tell him-- - -"I must catch the next train; Roger and I have a farewell dinner in -New York to-day. Old fellow, I'm sorry to leave him. I suppose when I -return I shall find him rusting out in Bensalem; for he's determined -to go there against all the arguments I can bring up. Good-bye, -Marion." - -"Good-bye," she said, again, allowing her fingers to stay a moment in -his hand. - -"God bless you, dear." - -She remembered the blessing afterward; afterward, she remembered, too: -"and forgive me." Or did she imagine that? Why should he say that? How -had he hurt her? He had only been like Roger. - -She had said--what did she say that he should ask her to become his -wife when he had not once thought of it all winter--when he was going -away for years without thinking of it. - -In her bewilderment she could not recall the terrible and true words -she herself had spoken, she imagined them to be beyond everything more -dreadful than she would dare think; they burned her through and -through, these words that had said themselves. Were they hurting him -every hour as they were hurting her? - -Impetuous she knew herself to be; frank to a fault Roger plainly told -her that she was; often and often her outbursts were to her own -heart-breaking; but nothing before had she ever done like this; there -was no excuse for this, no healing; he would despise her as long as he -lived, and she would have no power ever to forget. - -Shame that he understood, that he had all the time understood, was -burning her up like a fever; that he was gone she was unfeignedly -glad, that she might see his dear face no more, she sometimes prayed. -Still, with it all, her life went on as usual; the errands down town, -the calls, her Sunday-school class, her King's Daughters' meetings, -her regular hours for practice, the cake-making, the sweeping, she -even began to read one of the volumes of Ruskin she found on the table -in his chamber, with her name and his initials written in each book; -her life went on, her life with the heart gone out of it; her life -went on, but herself seemed staying behind somewhere. - -It was a relief that Roger was away a part of every week, Roger, whom -nothing escaped; the others saw nothing,--she believed there was -nothing for them to see. - - - - -IV. BENSALEM. - - - All service ranks the same with God; - If now, as formerly he trod - Paradise, his presence fills - Our earth, each only as God wills - Can work. - - --Robert Browning. - -In large black letters the word Post Office stared down the Bensalem -street from the end door of a small white house. A plump lady in gray -pushed open the door; the bell over the door sharply announced her -entrance; she stepped into the tiny room; straight before her a door -was shut, at her right were rows of glass pigeonholes with numerals -pasted upon them; no head was visible at the window the pigeonholes -surrounded; while she stood ready to tap upon the closed door that led -into the sitting-room, the sound of a horn clear and loud gave her a -start and betrayed her into a quick exclamation: "Why, deary me. What -next?" - -"Come in here, come in here," called a shaky voice from the other side -of the closed door. - -She pushed the door open, to be confronted by the figure of an old man -lying in bed with a tin horn in his hand. - -"Come right in, Miss Affy," the old man said cheerfully; "I've got one -of my dreadful rheumatic days and can't twist myself out of bed; I've -had my bed down here for a week now. I've got all the mail in bed with -me. Sarah had to go out and milk and feed the chickens, so she brought -the few letters and papers that were left over in here for me to take -care of. Doctor says I'll be about in a week or so, if he can keep the -fever down. I never had rheumatic _fever_ before. Nobody comes this -time of day for letters. Nothing happens about five o'clock excepting -feeding the chickens. Sarah milks earlier than most folks so as to -tend the mail, when the stage gets in. She went out earlier than usual -to-day because she forgot the little chickens at noon. She just put -her head in to say she had taken a new brood off. Do sit down a -minute. Didn't Mr. Brush tell you I had rheumatic fever? Sarah must -have told him when he came for his paper, night before last. She tells -everybody. I blew the horn to call Sarah in, but I don't believe -she'll come until she gets ready. The mail doesn't mean anything to -her excepting getting our pay regular. There's all the letters on the -foot of the bed; you can pick yours out. Sarah said you had a letter, -and she guessed it was from your niece, Mrs. Mackenzie, or her little -girl. Yes, that's it. Mr. Brush's paper is there, too." - -The plump lady in gray, with a long gray curl behind each ear, picked -among the letters and papers at the foot of the untidy bed, and found -a letter in a pretty hand addressed to Miss Affy S. Sparrow, and a -newspaper bearing the printed label, Cephas Brush. - -"That is all," remarked the Bensalem postmaster; "never mind fixing -them straight; I get uneasy and tumble them around." - -"I will sit here and read the letter, if I may." - -"Oh, yes, do. I haven't heard any news to-day." - -"I'm afraid I haven't brought you any," said Miss Affy, "and you will -not care for my letter." - -"Oh, yes, I shall," he answered, eagerly. "I was wishing I could read -all the letters to amuse me. I did read Mr. Brush's paper. I tucked it -all back smooth; I knew he wouldn't care." - -"He will call and bring you papers," promised Miss Affy, tearing open -the envelope with a hair-pin. - -"I wish he _would_. And a book, too. I wanted Sarah to take my book -back to the library to-day, and get another to read to-night if I -can't sleep, but she said she hadn't time; and, she can't now, because -there's supper and the mail coming in," he groaned. "I had an awful -night last night; and if it hadn't been for 'Tempest and Sunshine,' I -don't know how I should have got through it." - -"That was enough for one night," laughed the lady at the window -reading the letter. "I will try to find you something better than that -for to-night." - -"Will you go to the library for me? That's just like you, Miss Affy." - -"Yes, I will go. If I cannot find anything I like I will call -somewhere else. There should be books enough in Bensalem to help you -through the night." - -"Is your letter satisfactory?" he questioned, curiously, as she -slipped it back into the envelope. - -"Mrs. Mackenzie is very feeble; she wishes to come to Bensalem for the -change, and asks me to go and bring her and Judith." - -"But you and Miss Rody will not want the trouble of sick folks." - -"We want _her_," said Miss Affy, rising; "I will leave your book in -the post-office, Mr. Gunn, so you need not blow the horn when you hear -me open the door." - -"But it may not be _you_; how shall I know?" - -"True enough. Blow your horn, then." - -"You can _look_ in if it's you, and Sarah isn't there." - -"Where is the book to take back?" - -"'Tempest and Sunshine.' Oh, Sarah hasn't finished it yet. I forgot -that," he said disappointedly. "She read it yesterday and gave me -nothing but bread and milk for supper, and I wanted pork and eggs. She -was on it long enough to finish," he grumbled. - -"No matter, then. I'll get one for myself. It will be the first book I -have taken from the library." - -"And you such a reader, too. How many magazines do you take? I'd like -some of your old magazines while I'm laid up." - -"Mr. Brush will bring you a big bundle. But I will go to the library -now, for he may not wish to bring them to-night." - -The school library was kept at the house of one of the school -trustees; the errand gave Miss Affy another quarter of a mile to walk, -and it also gave her the opportunity of a call upon Nettie Evans, -whose small home was next door to the school-library. Cephas Brush had -told her that she knew how to kill more birds with one stone than any -woman he knew. - -She walked past the syringa bushes of the school trustee's front yard, -and knocked on the front door with the big brass knocker; there was no -response excepting the sound of rubbing and splash of water that came -through the open kitchen window. Miss Affy knocked the second time -with more determined fingers. It was a pity to take Mrs. Finch from -her washing, but it would be more of a pity to let that old man toss -in pain and groan for a book to read. As she gave the second knock she -wondered if his lamp were safely arranged, and if the reading by -lamp-light did not injure his eyes; she would look for a book with -good type. - -The kitchen door was quickly opened, a woman with rolled-up sleeves -and dripping, par-boiled fingers called out pleasantly: "Why don't you -come to this door?" - -"Excuse me, Mrs. Finch," said Miss Affy, walking past another syringa -bush, "I came to the Circulating Library." - -"The Circulating Library is where I am. I keep it in the kitchen, -because I cannot circulate about my work to attend it," replied Mrs. -Finch, extending a hospitable wet hand; "You see I'm late to-day; -usually my washing is all out at eleven o'clock. But his folks came to -dinner, three of them, unexpectedly--Monday, too, and I had to spring -around and cook a dinner; the Sunday left-overs wouldn't do. They -didn't leave the house until half-past two, so I had to leave the -dinner dishes, piled them up in the shed, under a pan, and put on my -boiler again. It don't often happen, and I put a good face on it." - -"You turn a very cheery face toward life, Mrs. Finch." - -"Well, I try to. It's all I've got to give anyway;" Mrs. Finch -replied, removing the cover from the boiler and poking at the clothes -with a long clothes-stick; the steam rolled out the door and windows; -as the room was cleared, Miss Affy discovered a high mahogany bureau -with brass rings, the top of which was covered with books in neat -piles. - -"You are welcome to look at the books and take one. I wish you -_would_ sit down, Miss Affy, I can talk while I work. I wish I might -stay and wash the dishes for you." - -Miss Affy prayed every day, "Use me, Lord, any way, any where." - -"With that dress on?" said Mrs. Finch, regarding the new spring suit -with favor. "I couldn't help looking at you in church, if it _was_ -Sunday, and thinking that you looked sweet enough to be a bride." - -"Thank you. I am fond of this dress," replied Miss Affy in her simple, -sweet way. - -"When you are married, you must be married in gray. I was married in -white. Thirty years ago." - -"I remember it," said Miss Affy, "Cephas and I were there." - -"Don't think about the dishes. It's just like you." - -"I would more than think about them, but I must call on Nettie, and -then I promised to read awhile to Mrs. Trembly; she is more blind than -she was, and Agnes breaks her heart because she cannot find more time -to read to her and amuse her." - -"They should come before dishes. People first, I say. That's why I'm -behind with my washing. People first, I say to Jonas, and he looks -scornful. But it will pay some day." - -"You have not a catalogue?" - -"A seed catalogue? We've never had a call for that. I thought -everybody had one." - -"So we have, dozens. I meant a catalogue of the books. I would like to -know what our boys and girls are reading." - -"Grown people, too. Everybody reads the books. Every time Mr. Gunn is -laid up he is crazy for books. Look them over; lots of them are out. -No matter how you put them back, if you only pile them up." - -"But you have a book in which to put down my name and the number of -the book I take." - -"Oh, no; take any you like. I couldn't be bothered that way. We expect -new books. The last entertainment the school children had was to raise -money for books. We don't get anything for keeping the books, but -Jonas is the greatest reader that ever was; he has read them all. But -I never have time. I don't know what is in any of them." - -"Your husband knows. I am glad he reads them. Our young people must be -taken care of. Books have been everything to me. These books are an -influence in Bensalem." - -"I hope so," replied the keeper of the books, not thinking for an -instant that they could be otherwise than a good influence. - -"Excuse me if I go on with my work; that is the last boiler-full." - -"I would not stay if I interrupted you," said Miss Affy. "I may take -considerable time, for I want to know what our boys and girls are -reading. I know every book in the Sunday-school library, but I had -forgotten that Bensalem boasted a public school library." - -After a half-hour's search, Miss Affy's choice was made; the type of -the book was not large enough for the old man's reading at night, but -the story was excellent: "Samuel Budget, the Successful Merchant." - -"I'm sorry about the type," she said, "but it is better than the -newspapers." - -"The type? Is that the name of the story?" questioned the woman at the -wash-tub. - -"The print I should say. Thank you for letting me come. But I am sorry -to leave those dishes." - -"Don't be sorry. My kitchen will be very sweet when the syringas are -out. And don't think I'm always so late with my washing. It was all -his folks." - -"How is Nettie these days?" - -"Miserable enough. She doesn't know how to get outside of her poor -little self. But then, who of us does, until we are _pulled_ out?" she -asked, with cheerful philosophy, as Miss Affy went away past the -syringa bushes. - -Miss Affy spent an hour in Nettie Evans's chamber, telling the little -girl stories about her great-niece, Judith Mackenzie, who lived in the -city with her dear, sick mother, and they both were soon coming to -Bensalem, and Judith would love to visit her often, and Judith told -stories, that were worth telling; last summer in the evenings, in -Summer Avenue, she had a dozen boys and girls on the steps, listening -to her stories continued from one evening to another. Nettie's white -face grew glad, and in the night she was comforted by the thought of -the coming of the story-teller. Then Miss Affy crossed the street to -the one-story yellow house and read from a Sunday-school library-book -to blind Mrs. Trembly, whose only daughter had little time to spare -her mother from her housekeeping and dressmaking, and on her way home, -stopped at the Post-office with "Samuel Budget." - -At the supper table, she remarked to Cephas and her sister Rody: "I do -hope our new minister will have a good wife. Bensalem needs the -ministry of a woman--a real deaconess." - -"As if you weren't one," said Cephas, with admiration in his eyes. - -"But I'm not the minister's wife." - -"Nor anybody else's," retorted Aunt Rody, sharply, with a look at the -bald-headed, white-whiskered man opposite her at the foot of the -table. The look passed over him instead of going through him, as he -gave a laugh, a contented laugh that hurt Aunt Rody, even more than -she had intended her look to hurt him. - -Those two would circumvent her some day; the longer she lived the more -sure she was of it, and the more would it cut her to the quick. Every -year she fought against it (if one can fight with no antagonist), the -more rebelliously she was set against it. There was but one hope for -her: that she would outlive one of them; she hoped to outlive both of -them. - - - - -V. DAILY BREAD AND DAILY WILL. - - - "We walk by faith and not by sight." - - "Creatures of reason do not necessarily become - unreasonable when they consent to walk by faith; nor - do creatures of trust necessarily become faithless - when they are gladdened in a walk by sight." - -Judith sat in the bay-window with a book in her lap; a box of books -had come by express to Miss Judith G. Mackenzie the very day her -Cousin Don sailed for Genoa; they were books written for children; -they were all Judith's own. - -With the light of the sunset in her face, Judith sat reading Jean -Ingelow's "Stories Told to a Child." - -"O mother, it is too splendid for anything," she exclaimed; "when you -are rested I will read it to you." - -"Is your ironing all done?" - -"Yes, mother." - -"And Aunt Affy's bed made?" - -"All made. Mrs. Kindare put up the cot herself and lent me two -blankets. It is a cunning room; Aunt Affy will like it; Mrs. Kindare -said she could spare the room better than not, and Aunt Affy may stay -a month, waiting until we can go home with her." - -"Put away your book, dear; and come and sit on the rug close to me. I -want to be all alone with my little girl once more before Aunt Affy -comes." - -Reluctantly Judith closed the book; she remembered afterward that she -thought she would rather finish the story than go and sit on the rug -and talk to her mother. - -"Mother," she began, as brightly as though a minute ago she had not -wished to finish the story first, "Don might have stayed with us all -winter and had that room to sleep in." - -"Yes, I thought of that. It would have made a difference in somebody's -life." - -"Whose life?" Judith questioned. - -"In his own," replied her mother, "and other people's. I did not -intend to speak my thought aloud." - -The sunset was in the room: it was over Judith, and over her mother. - -"Was he sorry he did not come here?" Judith persisted. - -"I think he was. He said we would have made him so comfortable. He -would have taken his meals with Mrs. Kindare." - -"Are you sorry, too?" - -"No--not exactly. If it were a mistake, it will be taken care of--it is -very queer to trust God with our sins and not with our mistakes." - -"I made a 'mistake' that night he was here, mother; I did not mean to -make a sin." - -"Tell me, dear." - -"I thought I would never tell. I was afraid it would worry you. But I -cried after I went to bed. You will think me naughty and silly." - -"Do I ever?" - -"Yes, oh, yes," smiled Judith, "you always do every time I am." - -"I could not lie down in peaceful sleep to-night if I believed that my -little daughter kept a thought in her heart she would rather not tell -her mother." - -"But I shouldn't keep silly thoughts in my heart." - -"That is what mothers are for--to hear all the silly things." - -"Then I'll tell you," decided Judith, bringing herself from a lounging -posture, upright, and yet not touching her mother's knees; "that night -Lottie said there was a good way to find out what would happen to you -next--to wish for a thing and shut your eyes and open the Bible and put -your hand on a verse, and if it said _And it came to pass_ you would -certainly have it. We both did it, and she got her wish and I didn't -get mine. My heart was heavy, for I was afraid you wouldn't like it as -soon as I did it." - -"I do not like it. But I am glad you did it." - -"Why, _mother_!" - -"Because I can talk to you about something I might never have thought -about." - -"I like _that_," said Judith, comforted; "I hope Cousin Don's mistake -will be good for him." - -"It is already. What do you want to know about yourself?" - -"Things that will happen, grown-up things. I make castles about -grown-up things. When I make an air-castle I am never a little girl, -but a big girl, fifteen or eighteen, and that kind of things happen; -the kind of things that happen to girls in books. Is that silly?" - -"No; it is only not wise. It spoils to-day, and to-day is too good to -be spoiled. God has made to-day for us, and we slight his gift by -passing it by and trying to find out the things that will happen to us -to-morrow. Suppose you would not read the children's books Cousin Don -sent you, but coax him to give you grown-up books." - -"I couldn't be so mean," said Judith warmly. - -"But questions do come to us, wonders about our grown-up time. Is it -not trusting God more to wait for His answers?" - -"Oh, yes, I _am_ waiting--unless I can find a way--like that way--to find -out." - -"That is not God's way; he never told us to find out his will that -way. When he said, 'And it came to pass,' it was about something that -had happened, not about something that will happen; and about someone -else, and not about you. The Bible was not written to tell us such -things." - -"But I didn't know that really," said Judith, miserable, and ready to -cry. - -"That was a mistake, not a sin. We all make mistakes before we know -better. If you should do so again, it would be a sin, because now you -know better." - -"But people did cast lots in Bible times. Don't you know about finding -out about another disciple to make up the twelve after Judas killed -himself? I read that to you this morning." - -"Yes, I remember that. Casting lots was one of God's ways in old times -to discover his will. The lot was cast into the lap, and the disposal -thereof was of the Lord. They knew God was willing for them to -cast lots." - -"Yes," said Judith, in her intelligent voice. - -"And this, I just thought of it. That time about choosing another -disciple was the last time. After the Holy Spirit was given there was -no need; the Holy Spirit always reveals the will of God." - -Judith's eyes grew dull; she could not understand; she felt dimly that -she had done wrong in not trusting God to tell her about her "wish" in -his own way. - -"Whenever, in all your life to come, a question about your future -comes to you, a longing to know about something that may happen to -you, or may not happen--but I should not say that; I should say about -something God may will to give you, or may will to keep from you, say -this to yourself: I need not think about it; God knows all about it, -for he _makes_ it; he will tell me as soon as he wants me to know." - -"Yes," said Judith, with a child's confidence. - -"After that, it would be not only 'silly,' but faithless to think -about it. Every day brings its own answer; your daily bread and God's -daily will come together; his bread gives us strength to do his will. -Will mother's little girl remember?" - -"Yes," said Judith gravely; "and when you see me forgetting you must -remind me. Will it be wrong if I say 'daily will' when I say 'daily -bread'?" - -"Not wrong," answered her mother, smiling, "only that it comes in the -prayer before daily bread." - -"Does it?" - -"Repeat it and see." - -Judith repeated: "Our Father, who art in heaven; Hallowed be thy name; -Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven; give -us this day our daily bread--Why, so it does. But I didn't put them -together before." - -"The _will_ comes first. If we do his will, he will not forget the -things we long for every day. Love his will better than your own will -and wishes." - -"That's hard," said Judith, "I don't know how." - -"That is what you are in the world for, _to learn how_." - -Judith arose and stood before the grate with sweet, grave, troubled -eyes. - -The yellow hair, the innocent face, the blue dress, the loving touch -of lips and fingers, the growing into girlhood; how could she give -them up and go? - -"O, mother, mother!" cried Judith, turning at the sound of a stifled -cry, "Are you worse? What shall I do?" then in a tone of quick, -astonished joy, "Oh, here's Aunt Affy at the door!" - - - - -VI. THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. - - - "What's the best thing in the world? - Something out of it, I think." - - --Elizabeth Barrett Browning. - -From Genoa there came a note to Marion:-- - - "Dear friend Marion: - - To-day's mail brings me saddest and most unexpected news. I - believed my Aunt Hilda would live years; I would not have left - her had I thought she would be taken so soon. She died in - Summer Avenue before she could be taken to Bensalem. Judith - has written herself, the bravest child's letter. She is in - Bensalem with two old aunts of her mother. - - Roger hopes to have you for his housekeeper; you will be near - Judith; will you take her under your wing? Her mother - especially wished her not to go to boarding-school. She has - always been a child of promise; she may fizzle out as - promising children do and become only an ordinary girl; but - she will always be sweet and brave, which is better than being - brilliant. One sweet woman is worth a thousand brilliant ones; - that is the reason there are so many more sweet ones. I would - change my plans and return for her sake, but what can a - bachelor cousin do for her? She will be sheltered from harmful - influences in Bensalem. She will write me regularly. I have - written to Roger about her money affairs. - - Your friend, - Don." - -In reply Marion wrote the briefest note:-- - - "Dear friend Don: - - I will do my best for Judith. - - Yours truly, - Marion." - -"It will be the best thing in the world for Marion," replied the voice -of Marion's mother. - -"There is no best thing in the world for Marion," Marion told herself -wearily, rising from the back parlor sofa, where she had thrown -herself to be alone, and stepping softly across the room to the door. - -To be alone in the dark was the best thing in the world for her; to be -alone in the dark forever. For something had happened to her that had -never happened to any girl before. With a light tread she went up -stairs: she would not have her mother know that she had overheard the -remark made to her father--her mother could not know all, only herself -and Don Mackenzie knew her cruel secret; he would never tell, not even -Roger, and she could sooner die than let the words pass her lips to -any human creature. Girls had gone through terrible things before; but -no girl ever had gone through this; no girl could, unless she were -like herself, and no girl was like herself, so impetuous, so headlong, -so frank that frankness became a sin. - -In her own chamber she found the darkness and solitude she craved; the -darkness and solitude she thought she would crave forever. The voices -in the front parlor went on low and steadily, planning a best thing -for Marion for whom no best was possible. - -"Yes, it will certainly be a good thing," her father answered in a -relieved tone; "she hasn't been herself since Donald Mackenzie went -away." - -"I was afraid when he came," was the low uttered response. - -"Mothers are always afraid," returned the father, who had urged his -coming. - -"But I was specially afraid; Don is so attractive, so unconscious of -himself, and I know Marion well enough to know that she would make an -ideal of him--" - -"Nonsense," was the sharp interruption. - -"It may be nonsense, but it is true; it has proved true. Marion is -imaginative, as I was at her age: I know how I idealized _you_--" - -"And the reality of me broke your heart," he said, with a light, fond -laugh. - -"Yes. Sometimes it did. But I lived through it and learned that you -were human, and deliciously human, and, if you will allow me to say -so, a great improvement on my girlish ideal." - -"At any rate, I was not afraid to let you try," he answered; "but Don -has gone without giving her the trial. I suspect he saw it and went." - -"I know he did," said Marion's mother. - -"Does Roger know it?" asked Marion's father. - -"Roger always knows everything and looks as if he knew nothing," -replied the motherly voice; "I think he was relieved when Don went -away." - -"You think she will soon get over it?" her father asked. It would have -broken Marion's heart to hear the solicitude in her father's voice. - -"I'm afraid there's no 'over it' for a girl like her; but she is -plucky enough to get through it; the worst of it is, Don is such a -fine fellow." - -"He had no right to care for her--" her father began angrily. - -"He couldn't help that," argued her mother. - -"Then he should care more, and be a man, and speak his mind--" - -"I think he _must_ care for some one else; if he hadn't he couldn't -resist Marion." - -"Marion is like other girls," said Marion's father impatiently; "not a -whit prettier--" - -"No, not prettier," she assented, with protest in her tone. - -"Or more accomplished," he insisted. - -"She hasn't accomplishments, beside her fine education, and music--" - -"All girls play, I suppose he sees other girls--" - -"And she saw but one man. That was the trouble. I wonder how fathers -and mothers can help that. Roger wanted him to come to board through -the winter, said a boarding-house was dismal, and his mother had just -died--well, we can't help it now. Don has cared for all the children--he -was great friends with Maurice and John. If she will go to Bensalem -and keep house for Roger, it will be just the thing." - -"I think so myself," he answered, reasonably. - -"Roger will be only too happy; his sister Marion has always been his -sweetheart." - -"Bensalem will do," replied her father, hopefully, shifting all his -responsibility; "when we visit them next summer she will be as rosy as -ever and singing about the house like a bird." - -"Then Roger must accept that call," decided Roger's mother positively. -"A year in the country will brush off his student ways--it will be the -best thing in the world for both of them." - -"And poor Bensalem?" - -"It isn't poor Bensalem," she retorted, indignantly. "They knew what -they wanted when they called Roger." - -"Roger is a good boy, but he isn't the least bit brilliant," said -Roger's father, cheerfully. - -"He is something better," said Roger's mother. - -"But how can you get along without her?" - -"Better than Roger can. Besides, Martha and Lou will soon be through -school; Roger and Marion are not our only children." - -"You talk as though they were, sometimes," he retorted. "Anyhow, let -the sky fall, but do something for Marion." - - - - -VII. A SMALL DISCIPLE. - - - "Who comes to God an inch through doubtings dim, - In blazing light God will advance a mile to him." - - --From the Persian. - -Aunt Rody gave Judith a nudge. The nudge startled the absorbed reader -into dropping, with a thud, the book she held in her hand upon the -carpeted floor of the pew; with a crimsoned face Judith stooped and -picked up the book; after a moment of deliberation and a defiant flash -toward Aunt Rody, stiff and straight in the end of the pew, she -re-opened her book and was again lost in the fascinating story. Aunt -Rody glared at her, but she turned a page, only half conscious of the -wrath that was being heaped up against her; this time it was not a -nudge, but a large hand that startled her; the large hand, brown, -strong, was laid across the page. - -Judith gave a glance, not defiant, into the kindly, grave eyes, then -shut the book, straightened herself and tried hard to listen to the -minister. - -The figure at the other end of the pew, the man's figure, settled back -comfortably to listen, and listened without trying hard. - -The kindly, grave eyes under the shaggy black brows never stirred from -the minister's face; once in a while the brown, strong hand stroked -the long white beard; Judith watched him as he listened, and then she -watched Aunt Rody, unbending, alert, with her deep-set black eyes, her -hard-working hands very still in her new, black kid gloves. - -When the sermon was ended Judith gave a sigh of relief; she could sit -still, she had sat still; but her mind had not followed the minister. - -She wished she could like sermons. She liked the Bible. This sermon -was not like the Bible. - -As she stood in the church doorway, waiting for Aunt Rody, who always -had something to tell, or something to ask in the crowd in the aisle, -she overheard a loud whisper behind her: "Oh, that's Judith Mackenzie. -She has come to stay with the Sparrow girls. Her mother was their -niece. Father died long ago; mother last winter." To escape further -details, the listener stepped forward and down one step; there was a -stir and some one stood beside her, a tall young man, not like any one -else in Bensalem: she knew without raising her eyes that he was the -new minister. She flushed, thinking that he had noticed that she was -reading her Sunday School book in church. - -"Would you like to be a Christian?" he asked, with something in his -tone that made it hard for her to keep the tears back. - -This was worse than a rebuke for reading; she might have excused -herself for that; for this she had no words. The voice was very low; -perhaps no one heard beside herself. - -Too startled to speak at first, she kept silent; then, too truthful to -speak one word that she was not sure was true, and thinking that she -hardly knew what it was to _be_ a Christian, she could not say "Yes"; -not daring to say "No," she stood silent. - -"Pray for the Holy Spirit," he said, moving away. - -She knew how to pray; she had prayed all her life; but she had never -once prayed for the Holy Spirit. She was afraid to do that. - -What would happen to her if she did, she wondered, as she walked down -the paved path to the gate; would a tongue of flame come down from -heaven and settle on her head? Would she speak with tongues, right -there, before them all, in the crowd? Would she heal the sick by -prayer and anointing with oil? Would she pray in prayer-meeting, and -go about from house to house talking about the Lord Jesus, whose dear, -sacred name she seldom took upon her lips? - -What a strange thing to say to a girl of thirteen! - -There were no young disciples in the Bible; they were all grown up and -old. - -Just now all she wanted to do was to tell Jesus and his Father -everything that troubled her, and everything she was glad of, and read -the Bible, and,--"Come Judith," interrupted Aunt Rody's shrill voice. -She sat on the back seat of the carriage with Aunt Rody; Mr. Brush sat -alone on the front seat; Aunt Affy had not come to church to-day; it -was her turn to stay at home. - -Aunt Rody insisted that some one should always stay at home; there was -the silver, and her will, and a great many other things to be guarded -from Sunday marauders. - -"Judith Grey Mackenzie," began Aunt Rody, in her most revengeful -voice, "you must behave in church or stay at home." - -"I was behaving--I read to help behave; when I cannot understand I -think everyday thoughts; isn't that worse than reading?" - -"Nothing is so bad behaved as reading. And all the folks seeing you. -What do you suppose the new minister thinks of you?" - -"He thinks I am not--" - -Her shy lips could not frame the words "a Christian." - -"Not very well brought up," tartly finished Aunt Rody. - -"I brought myself up, that's the reason then," replied Judith, her -eyes filling with resentful tears. "Mother was always too sick. Cousin -Don said my mother was the sweetest mother in the world." - -"You act like a sick mother; but you've got an aunt that isn't sick; -and if I ever see you read again in church you shall not go to church -for six months. Tell your Cousin Don that." - -"I wouldn't mind church," replied Judith. - -"To Sunday School then, if that hurts more." - -"Oh, tut, tut," came good humoredly from the front seat. "Don't forget -your own young days, Rody." - -"I never had any. Just as I shall never have any old age. I've never -had time to be young or old." - -Judith laughed. Aunt Rody was eighty-four years old. - -"Don't you deceive me about the book, Judith, for I don't always go to -church." - -"Aunt Rody," with girlish dignity, "I never deceived any one in my -life." - -"That's a good deal to say." - -"I haven't lived to be eighty-four, but I think I never _shall_ -deceive. I would rather _die_ than not be true," she burst out. - -"H'm, you haven't been tried." - -Judith thought she had; did not this grim, hard old woman try her -every day of her life? - -The long village street was lined with maples and locusts; inside the -yards were horse-chestnut trees, lilacs, and syringas. - -All over the beautiful country the fruit trees were in blossom; Judith -revelled in the fragrance and delicate tints of the apple-blossom; she -called it her apple-blossom spring. - -The story and a half red farmhouse, with its slanting roof and long -piazza, marked the "Sparrow place"; it had been the Sparrow place one -hundred and fifty years. The red farmhouse was built one hundred years -ago; the Sparrow girls, the eight sisters, were all born there long -before many of the village people could remember. - -As Judith stepped up on the piazza the bowed gray head at the window -was lifted; the girl went to the open window and stood; Aunt Affy took -off her spectacles and laid them in the book she was reading. - -Judith thought Aunt Affy read but one book. How could anyone be wise -and read only one book? - -"Well, dear," said Aunt Affy in her welcoming tones. To Aunt Affy -Judith Grey Mackenzie was the sweetest picture of girlhood in all the -world; she was as fresh as the dew, tinted like an apple-blossom, as -natural as a wild rose. To everyone else she was a girl of thirteen, -with the faults, the forgetfulness, the impetuosity, the -thoughtlessness, and above all, the selfishness of girlhood. Her -yellow hair fell in long curls to her waist, because her mother had -loved it so; her eyes of deepest blue were frank and truth-telling; in -her lips, flexible, yet strong, was revealed a world of loving; a -world that she had not yet learned herself. - -She was impatient, passionate, rebellious; but never was it in face, -voice, or attitude when under the witchery of Aunt Affy's -appreciation. - -"Aunt Affy, I've been wicked," she confessed in a humiliated voice. - -"So have I. I've been sitting here grumbling, when I should be the -happiest old sinner in the world." - -"I've been wickeder than that." - -"How much wickeder?" - -"I borrowed a Sunday-school book to take to church because I do not -understand Mr. Kenney." - -"Did that help you understand him?" - -"I did try at first," Judith explained, laughing at Aunt Affy's -serious question, "but it was about the things in Revelation, the hard -things--" - -"Did he not say anything you _could_ understand?" - -"No--" said Judith, thinking that his message to her, her own private -message, was the hardest of all to understand. - -"You were very rude." - -"How was it rude?" Judith questioned, surprised. - -"He was speaking to you, and you refused to listen." - -"I was listening to someone else," said Judith, troubled. - -"That was more rude still. That was premeditated rudeness." - -"I hope he did not notice it." - -"You may trust him for that." - -"But I cannot tell him I am sorry; it would choke me to death." - -"And another thing--if he is Christ's ambassador, and you refused to -listen--" - -The girl's eyes filled, and her lips trembled; was it _that_ she had -done? - -"It's time to set the table," were Aunt Affy's next words, in an -unconcerned tone, polishing her glasses with a corner of her white -apron. That small, clean old kitchen; how Judith loved it. She loved -every kind of work that was done in it, even the wash-tubs, the smell -of the suds was exhilarating, and baking and ironing days were her -delight. Every nerve and muscle responded to the call to labor. - -The south door opened on a flagged walk that led to Aunt Affy's flower -garden, the north door led you out into a deep, square, grassy yard, -where the clothes were hung and bleached; a tall, shaggy pine stood -sentinel at one side of the door, on the other side ran the bench upon -which the milk-pans shone in a row; beyond the grass rose a stone -wall, and then there were fields and woods; woods in which the thrush -hid, and the whip-poor-will; a brook started from a spring in the -woods and tumbled over the pebbles down into the meadows, then out, -below the flower garden and across the road, where it was bridged with -a stone arch. - -In the kitchen was a brick oven, its iron door stood out black among -the white-washed bricks; the uneven boards of the kitchen were always -scrubbed clean, the stove was brushed into a shining blackness every -day, the two tables were as spotless as sand, the scrubbing-brush and -Aunt Affy's strong hands could make them. - -Out of the three windows were pictures of which the city-bred girl -never wearied. Her apple-blossom spring was the spring of her new -birth. - -"Aunt Rody, please excuse me," Judith said, rising from the dinner -table. - -"You haven't eaten your custard, and you like it with crab-apple -jelly." - -The yellow custard in the big coffee-cup with a broken handle, and the -generous spoonful of jelly quivering on top was a temptation; she -looked at it, then pushed it away. Nobody would ever know that she was -punishing herself for being "rude" in church; it was easier to punish -herself than to apologize to Mr. Kenney; and something had to be done. - -"I want to study my Sunday-school lesson," she evaded, and then her -heart sank at her deception; she had not told Aunt Rody all the truth. - -She fled into the parlor with a question from Aunt Rody pursuing her; -her cheeks were burning, and she was trembling with shame and anger. - -Why couldn't Aunt Rody leave her alone? Sometimes she almost hated -Aunt Rody. A corner of the stiff, long, horse-hair sofa was her -retreat; it was often her retreat; she called it her valley of -humiliation. - -In her lesson to-day she found the loveliest thing. Aunt Affy was -teaching her that the Bible was a treasure-house. - -"By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love -one to another." - -All men know--just by loving--not by doing any great hard thing--by -loving--but that was hard, if it meant bearing with Aunt Rody's -misunderstanding and sharpness and fault-finding, and being always on -the watch to find evil in you. - -But "all men know" was the comfort of it; she need not pray in prayer -meeting as Miss Kenney did, nor do the wonderful things the disciples -did; all men would know that she wanted to be a Christian, if she -tried to be loving. - -She repeated the words of Christ in a soft monotone, her small Bible -in her hand, and her head pillowed on her hair on the hard sofa-arm. - -Aunt Affy pushed the door wider and entered, bringing a glass half -filled with crab-apple jelly. - -"I saved your custard--it's on the hanging shelf in the cellar," she -said, opening the door of the chimney cupboard to set the glass in its -own space in the row of jelly glasses. - -"Aunt Affy," lifting her tumbled head, and with grave eyes asking her -question: "what is--who is a disciple?" - -"A disciple is one who learns. You are my disciple when you learn of -me. The disciple of Christ is the man, or woman, or child who learns -of him. When you are about the farm with Cephas, you are his disciple, -in sewing and mending you are Aunt Rody's, in housekeeping generally -you are my disciple." - -Aunt Affy went out, and the tumbled head dropped back to the hard -sofa-arm again. Would Christ let her be a "disciple" a little while, -and then be a Christian when she grew up, she pondered. - -She wanted to learn of him; she would read the Gospels through and -through and through. She would learn them by heart. For her lesson -to-day she would learn these seven verses he had spoken to his own, -real, grown-up disciples. - -That afternoon in Sunday-school, after the lesson was ended, the new -minister left his class of boys and came to the pulpit stairs and -stood and talked to the children; his opening sentence thrilled one -small listener:-- - -"_The disciples were called Christians_ first at Antioch." - -If you were a disciple, only a disciple, learning and loving, you were -called a Christian. Then he spoke of the Holy Spirit; he was the very -heart and will of Christ; he spoke in a low, sweet voice to children, -a constraining voice, making known the things Christ the Lord would -have them do; he showed them the things of Christ. - -Had she dared she would have stepped out of her pew and gone up the -aisle to the new minister and told him that she _did_ want to be a -Christian, and she would not be afraid to ask the Holy Spirit to tell -her all the things Christ wanted her to do. Miss Kenney, her teacher -and the minister's sister, noticed the start and flush, the hesitancy, -the eager look, as the minister came down the aisle and paused to -speak to her girls; she saw Judith's eyes drop as he took her hand, -and then her shy withdrawal of herself. - -Suddenly the girl turned, and with the flash of decision in her voice, -said bravely, detaining the minister with her trembling little hand:-- - -"I am sorry I read in church this morning; I will never do it again, -even if I don't understand. Please excuse me." - -"I saw you," he said, smiling, and taking the brave little hand into -both his own; "I will try to talk to _you_ next Sunday. Thank you for -the lesson." - -Then shy Judith slipped away, and never told even Aunt Affy that she -had apologized to the new minister. - -That evening in the twilight, sitting on the piazza alone, she wrote -on the fly-leaf of her small Bible, in pencil:-- - - Judith Grey Mackenzie; A Disciple. - -And the date, May 15, 18--. - -She thought she would like to tell somebody that she was a disciple. -But if they should ask how it happened, she could not tell. It had -happened as still as a leaf fluttering in the wind, as softly as the -apple-blossoms came; nobody could tell about that. She thought the -Holy Spirit must know how it happened. - - - - -VIII. THIS WAY, OR THAT WAY? - - - "My times are in Thy hand, and Thou - Wilt guide my footsteps at Thy will." - -It was six o'clock that May evening, and Joe was running away. He did -not know he was running away. He had never been taught to read, and no -one had ever told him a story, and his own experience of life was so -limited, that he did not know that he was starting out in the world to -find adventures, to find good or evil, to find a new life, and that -new life, shaped more by what was inside of himself, than what was -outside of himself. If the man who just passed him had asked him what -he was doing, he would have said, had he not been overcome by one of -his fits of shyness, that he was "gittin' out." - -The air was damp, and sweet with the scent of blossoms. At his right -ran a range of low hills, abrupt and green; at his left, as far as he -could see, stretched the swamp, miles of meadow, over-flooded in the -spring, waving with grass in the summer, and homely with unpainted -one-story houses, and out-buildings in various stages of decay; it was -a pasture land for the cattle of the farmers in the upland district, -and Joe's bare feet had trodden its miles morning and night ever since -he had been old enough to drive the cows. - -He went on slowly, with his hands in his pockets, too heavy-hearted to -whistle, not thinking about anything, only feeling, with something in -his throat that would not be swallowed down, miserable and defiant; -remembering nothing in his past to regret not having learned that -there was anything in his future to hope for, he was conscious only of -something stirring within, stirring to action, to wideness, to -freedom, and therefore he must "git out" to find it; therefore he was -getting out. - -His plan, if he had a plan, was to find a woman in the village who had -once spoken kindly to him, and given him a huge slice of warm bread -and butter; in the swamp he knew he might find work among the Germans, -but the swamp was so lonely at night, and he did not like the ways of -the Germans; in all the world he had but one friend, this woman who -had spoken kindly to him. - -She might not give him work, or a bed, but she would _look_ at him, as -no one else ever looked, and she would speak kindly. The road over the -hill drew his lagging feet, then he stood, hesitating, at the turn of -the hill road and swamp road; the hill road led to people, and a -church, a store, where boys and men gathered at night to read the -newspaper, and smoke, and have fun; to the blacksmith's shop, and, -most of all, to the little house next door, where the woman lived who -had cut that large slice across her big, hot loaf. - -A German, in the swamp, had told him to come to him for a home and -work, if he ever wanted to leave his place; work he must, and a -home--the woman's face came between him and the German, his heart began -to beat very fast, he wondered why his heart beat so fast sometimes, -and he took his life in his hands, and started on a run for the road -over the hill, where was the only thing in the world that seemed like -love, although of love he had never had one thought. Then he began to -walk slowly again; he had decided there was no need of hurrying, there -was no need of doing anything--he had never been given a reason for -doing anything excepting that one or the other of the old men with -whom he had lived all his remembered life bade him do it. He had done -things because he was told; he did not know why, excepting that -because he was told. - -If he were being told now to run away, he did not know; he had never -thought that he might tell himself to do things. Not for a moment did -he believe that the two old men would take the trouble to look for -him, or to wish him back; every day, one, or both, said to each other -or to him that he was not worth his salt, and would never amount to -anything; they must be glad he was gone. But the cows. They would be -sorry, especially Beauty; one of the old men would milk her to-night, -but they would not pat her and talk to her, and ask her if she were -glad she was a cow and not a boy, and was worth her salt, and all her -feed beside; she had no friend but him, and she would look around for -him with her big eyes; again he stood hesitating--Beauty wanted him--his -tears fell fast; but he must go on, he wanted something better than -Beauty. - -So he went on down the hill, past the pretty parsonage and the -church--wondering, if he had no place to sleep, if he might sleep in -the church; then past the school-house, with its large play-ground, -and turned by the liberty-pole, and walked very slowly along the -street until he reached the blacksmith's shop, and there, in the -doorway of the small house, stood the woman looking for him. - -"Why, Joe, what are you doing here at milking time?" she asked in a -brisk tone, as the boy stopped before the gate. - -"I'm done milking for them two old men," he said, in a voice he tried -hard to make brave. "Chris and Sam don't want me any longer; I'm -gittin' out." And then, big boy as he was, feeling lost in a strange -world, he began to cry. - -"There! there! Sonny," soothed the voice, changing from its briskness -into sympathy, as the woman stepped down the three steps; "Come and -eat supper with me; I know what I'll do with you. I'm glad you -happened to come along this way." - -Pushing open the gate, she laid her hand on his arm and drew him into -the house by his soiled and ragged sleeve. - -"We don't want a boy, haven't work enough; but I know somebody who -does, late in the season as it is. Mr. Brush, Mr. Cephas Brush, he -farms the Sparrow place, you know; while he was waiting at the shop -this very morning, he came to the well for a drink, and I went out to -give him a glass so he needn't drink out of that rusty tin cup, and he -asked me if I knew where he could find a boy. His boy went off in -March. _He's_ a good master, and that's a good home; Miss Affy is like -a mother to every stray thing and you won't mind if Miss Rody does -scold, she never means any harm. I'll take you down there right after -supper. Mr. Evans had his early because he wanted to go to town, and I -was feeding my chickens, two hundred and five now,--Nettie puts down -every new brood in a book--and couldn't stop to eat. I didn't think I -was going to have company for supper. Nettie had hers earlier than -usual because she was tired, and wanted to go to bed." She pulled him -through the narrow hall as she talked, Joe, once in a while, giving a -quick, hard sob, and opened the door into the tiny kitchen. - -The tea-kettle on the stove was singing a cheery welcome, the white -cloth and pink dishes on the round table in the centre of the room -gave him another welcome, and the touch and tone of the woman who had -been kind to him brought him the cheeriest welcome of all, as she -pushed him down into the chair opposite her own at the table, saying: -"I know what men's cooking _is_, and I know you are half-starved. Who -made the bread?" - -"I got that at the store." - -"You had potatoes, of course." - -"Oh, yes, and fried pork, lots of it, and pan-cakes. My! can't Chris -make good pan-cakes!" - -"Can he?" inquired Mrs. Evans, doubtfully, taking the tea-pot off the -stove and setting it on the table. - -"Now, here's hot fried potatoes for you, and good bread and butter, -and a big saucer of rice pudding--Mr. Evans is _never_ tired of rice -pudding,--and sponge cake that little Judith brought to Nettie to-day -because it is her own baking. Nettie took a bite and said I must put -the rest on the supper-table. And you can have tea or milk, or both." - -After bustling about in the shed, Mrs. Evans seated herself at the -table opposite her guest. - -"Who would have thought I was going to eat supper with you, Joe? The -world does turn on its axis once every twenty-four hours, and -unexpected things do happen. I'll tell Nettie all about it tomorrow; -it will make a happening in her poor little life." - -Joe gave her a shy, quick glance, then bowed his head; some time, -somewhere, not with the old men, certainly, he had bowed his head and -said something at the table; he did not remember where it was, or what -words he said, or why he said anything at all, but the pretty -tea-table, or the savory food reminded him of a life he had once -lived; he listened for a chorus of voices:-- - -"For what we are about to receive--receive--truly thankful." - -It was like music in the boy's heart; he lifted his head with a light -shining in his tear-blurred eyes. - -"Well, I never," ejaculated Mrs. Evans. - -The boy held his knife and fork with a grace her husband had not -acquired, taking his food as slowly and daintily as a girl. - -"Those Tucker men, that old Chris and Sam have no claim on you, and -they haven't done as well by you as they promised they would when they -took you, a little fellow, out of the Christie Home. I've often spoken -to Mr. Evans about it, but he's so easy going I might as well have -talked to the wind. I told our new minister that he must 'high-way and -hedge' you; he has noticed you; but he is feeling his way among the -people, and couldn't make a stir as soon as he came." - -"Is _that_ where I was?" asked astonished Joe. "I thought I used to be -somewhere. _They_ never told me. I seem to remember things that -happened before I can remember. They told me that I hadn't any father -or mother, and wouldn't have any home if they had not taken me in." - -"People thought you ought to be sent to school and Sunday-school, but -what is everybody's business is nobody's business. I'm glad enough you -have left them, but you should have told them you wanted to leave." - -"It wouldn't have done any good," he muttered "they wouldn't have said -anything." - -"Now, I'll put out the cat, and leave the table standing, and bolt the -shed door, and lock the front door, and put on my things, and we'll be -off. Nettie is fast asleep and will never miss me." - -"I will wash the dishes for you; we put them under the pump, then wipe -them on anything." - -"That wouldn't suit me, thank you," laughed Mrs. Evans; "you can hoe -corn better than wipe dishes, and Mr. Brush has acres and acres of -corn to hoe, and potatoes too: he's making that old Sparrow farm pay." - -Joe did not know that he had been lost, but he began to feel very much -found. - -"I'm glad you went out to the well with that glass," he said, as his -hostess wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and tied the blue ribbons -of a blue wool hood under her chin. - -"I'm usually glad of kind things I do; I suppose that's one reason I -do them." - -Joe unlatched the gate, holding it open for her to pass through, then -pushed it shut; Beauty and this woman seemed to belong to the same -order of creaturehood; the woman's eyes were like Beauty's, soft, and -big and brown, and _they answered you_. She took his hand and drew it -under her arm in a sort of comradeship, and then they went on, the -woman and the boy, to find the gate that would swing open into a world -of which it had never entered the boy's heart to dream. - -The gate was shut and a man in shirt-sleeves with a pipe in his mouth -was standing on the mysterious and happy side of it resting his elbows -on the pickets, and, attracted by voices, looking up the road in the -starlight towards the two figures. - -"You stay here, Joe--that's Mr. Brush. I'll tell him all your story." - -"My story?" repeated Joe, in amazement. - -"You didn't know you had any," she laughed. "Well, folks don't usually -until it is all lived through. I didn't know I had any girlhood until -I married and lost it." - -"I haven't lost anything," said Joe, bewildered. - -"No; and I think you have got something--stand back, till I call you." - -She went on, and Joe heard the two voices exchange a friendly "Good -evening," and then to escape his "story" climbed up the steep, green -bank, and waited under a cherry tree. Cherry blossoms were not as -pretty as apple blossoms, he meditated; it was queer how the blossoms -would fall off, and the hard, green fruit come--but it always did, -somehow. - -He wished Mrs. Evans would come back and take his hand again, making -him feel ashamed and glad, and say, "Joe, you are going home with me. -That man doesn't want you, and I do." - -And there he stood, not still, but first on one bare foot, and then on -the other, and then he whistled; the stars shining down through the -cherry blossoms were almost as kind as Beauty's eyes, but they were so -far off. - -The low voices talked on and on; at last, to the great relief of the -boy who was waiting to know if anybody in the world wanted to own him, -the man's voice was raised in a cheerful: "Well, I'll see Mr. Chris -Tucker to-morrow, and make it right." - -And, then, in her brisk way, Mrs. Evans called, "Come, Joe; it is all -right." - -The barefoot, ragged boy emerged out of the shade of the cherry limbs -and went, faint-heartedly to answer the call. - -"Well, Joe," welcomed the old man, unlatching the gate and throwing it -wide open, "come in and stay with me awhile. I guess I want you and -you want me." - -But Joe begun to cry, and rub his eyes with the back of his dirty -brown hand: "I am sixteen years old, and I am a stump of a thing, and -will eat you out of house and home, and shan't never amount to much." - -"Tut, nonsense!" exclaimed the old man; "don't you like to work?" - -"I never did nothing else; I don't like nothing else," replied Joe, -dropping his hand, somewhat reassured. - -"Who said you are sixteen? Come in and let me have a look at you." - -Joe stepped inside the gate; kind, strong hands drew him within the -light that streamed from the kitchen windows and open door. - -"Good night, Joe," said Mrs. Evans. - -"Good night," said Joe. - -He had not learned how to say "thank you." - -"They said so," he replied to the latest question. - -"Those men. The Tucker twins. They are seventy, and hale old fellows. -I'll warrant you know how to work. You are not fourteen. You shall do -a boy's work and _be_ a boy. You _may_ grow to be as tall as old -Christopher himself. There's plenty of man-timber in you. Now come and -see what the women-folks will say to you." - -Joe shrank back. - -"I thought I was going to live with you." - -"And you thought I lived alone like the other old men? I'm a miserable -old bachelor, but I've got plenty of women-folks, thank the Lord." - -A little girl rushed to the door, and a barking Scotch terrier made a -spring at the new-comer. - -"Oh, what a dog," Joe exclaimed, stooping to catch frisking, curly -Doodles into his arms. Homesick for Mrs. Evans, frightened and glad, -he followed the old man into the kitchen with the curly dog in his -arms. - -"Affy, here's the boy I've been looking for, and you've been praying -for, I've no doubt." - -Aunt Affy turned and looked at the boy: short, stout, dirty, ragged, -with a shock of uncombed black hair, a lock falling over his forehead, -long black eyelashes concealed the eyes he kept shyly fixed upon the -curly bundle in his arms. - -"What is your name, dear?" she inquired. - -Joe had never heard "dear" before, but supposed she must be speaking -to him; he raised his eyes and smiled; they were shy, honest eyes; -Aunt Affy smiled too. - -"I am Joe," he said, pulling Doodles' ears. - -"Do you remember your father and mother?" - -"No; I don't remember nobody but Chris and Sam." - -"Is your name Joseph?" - -"I don't know; I never thought. I guess it's Joseph--or Jo--no, now I -remember another name: _Josiah_. Is that a boy's name?" - -"A boy's name, and a king's name. I am glad your name is Josiah. I -will tell you about him some time." - -The little girl stood near the lady, but she did not stare at him, and -Joe gave her glances now and then from under his long lashes; he would -like to know her name, and what she was here for. A man's fur cap -covered the black head; when he left the house, angry and discouraged, -he had put upon his head the first thing he seized. - -"Doodles hasn't given you time to take your hat off, Joe, or did you -forget?" suggested Aunt Affy's unreproachful voice. - -"Didn't forget it," said Joe, pulling it off and dropping it on the -floor. "They used to eat with their hats on, but I always took mine -off." - -"I should think you would," exclaimed indignant Judith. - -Joe put his cheek down upon Doodles' head, smoothing the sleeping head -with his brown cheek. - -"What is the dog's name?" he inquired. - -"Doodles," answered Judith, hastening to speak to the rude, strange -boy who had traveled from an unknown country. - -"O, Doodles, Doodles, Doodles," whispered Joe, in a fond voice, -rubbing his cheek on the soft head. - -"Well, Joe, do you love cows as well as dogs?" inquired Mr. Brush. - -"Yes," said Joe, thinking of the cow that was missing him to-night. He -hoped she was asleep now. "But I'm glad I found Doodles." - -"Now, Joe, drop Doodles," said Aunt Affy, "and follow me up these -kitchen stairs. I have a room ready for an obedient, truthful, -industrious boy." - -[Illustration: "Now, Joe, drop Doodles," said Aunt Affy, "and follow -me up these kitchen stairs."] - -"Where is _he_?" asked Joe, lifting his shaggy head. - -They all laughed, and laughing, also, Joe followed the plump, -sweet-faced lady up the kitchen stairs. - - - - -IX. THE FLOWERS THAT CAME TO THE WELL. - - - "He might have made the earth bring forth - Enough for great and small, - The oak tree and the cedar tree, - And not a flower at all." - - --Mary Howitt. - -Nettie Evans sat in her invalid chair leaning forward with her chin -on the window-sill looking down into her father's untidy back yard. - -The only pleasant thing in it was a lilac bush that was a marvel of -beauty when it was in bloom, but that had faded many weary days ago, -leaving ugly brown bunches where the lilacs had been; there were two -well-worn paths, one leading to the kitchen door, and the other to -the well, and nothing besides, excepting weeds with a background of -apple orchard. If Nettie had raised her eyes she would have seen -woods, and hills and fields of grain, a bit of road, a wooden bridge, -and a deep blue sky full of puffy, white clouds, but she would not -raise her eyes; when her back ached as it did to-day she never saw -anything but the weeds in the yard, especially those tall rag-weeds -growing close around the well. Her father had promised to "clear up" -the yard after planting, but planting had come and gone, and he was -still too busy. - -"Oh, if I were only able to pull weeds," she sighed. - -It was a very gentle sigh, she was not strong enough to sigh heavily. -Three years ago she could shout and run, to-day she could not move -her feet, and there were many days during the year when she must lie -still in bed. - -In winter, she had a south room, at the front of house, where she saw -the rising and the setting sun, and had a good view of all the people -who passed back and forth from the village; in summer, she had this -cool north room that looked out on the back yard. - -The back yard was full of interest to her--when she could forget the -weeds. Twenty times a day her mother came to the kitchen door to look -up at her, and tell her how the work was going on; she knew what was -cooking by the odors that came up to her and what all the noises -meant, from the click of the egg-beater to the thud of the -churn-dasher, and she saw old Mrs. Finch when she came to borrow -baking powder, and the pedlars, and book-agents, and apple-tree men; -but best of all she liked to watch for her father to come in to -dinner and supper. - -In blue flannel shirt and big straw hat, tired and dusty and warm, he -never failed to look up and call: "Why, hello, you there, daughter?" -just as if she were well, and had only run up stairs for a moment. -And her weak, "I'm here, father," made the sadness and the happiness -of his life. - -Nettie moved her head slightly, and gained a view of the pasture -where three cows were feeding; she could not see the brook, but she -knew that it ran through the pasture, and she knew there were blue -lilies all along the brook, some of them growing in the water. - -How she longed to see those lilies growing in the water! - -She was only ten years old the last time she saw those lilies: she -was driving home the cows at night, in her pink calico dress and -stout leather shoes, with her father's old straw hat on the back of -her head, "a picture of a happy, healthy, country lassie," her father -thought as he watched her standing by the clump of lilies while she -waited for the cows to drink. She was thinking she would gather a big -bunch of the lilies as soon as they were opened the next morning--but -the pet calf came behind her and butted her down, and her father -carried home in his arms a helpless little daughter. And there were -tiger lilies in bloom; she could not see the place where they were -growing, but it was only a quarter of a mile away in a fence corner, -such a patch of them! Oh, how she longed to see those tiger lilies -growing! The last time she saw the tiger lilies was the Sunday before -she said good-bye to the blue lilies--she was walking home alone from -Sunday-school in white dress and blue ribbons, and brown kid shoes, -and when she came to the fence corner with the great clump of tiger -lilies, she thought of picking a large bunch of them, but just then -she heard a noise behind her, and turning, saw a neighbor's three -little black and white pigs; they had followed her all the way from -the corner, and it was so funny to think how she had walked along -unconsciously, with those pigs in single file behind her, that she -just stood and laughed, and then she clapped her hands at them and -chased them back, and forgot all about the tiger lilies. - -"Oh, blue lilies, oh, tiger lilies, I'll _never_ see you growing any -more," she sighed. - -"Why, hello, daughter, you up there?" called the voice below her. - -Nettie did not answer; she felt too discouraged to speak, but she -looked down and tried to smile at her father. - -Her father looked just as usual, only he had a scythe over his -shoulder. - -"I came in a little earlier to cut down your weeds," he called -cheerily. - -Nettie watched him as he swung the scythe, and listened to the swish, -swish, as the tall weeds fell; when the weeds around the well grew -less she caught a glimpse of something blue, and then of something -red; she pulled herself up to the window, and leaned out, and then -she shrieked:-- - -"Father, don't cut down the _lilies_!" - -There they were, blue lilies and tiger lilies, growing together, -close by the well! - -"How did they _get_ there, father?" she called. - -"They must have been in the sod that I put around the well last -fall," he replied; "I remember now that I got it from two different -places. If I had cut down the weeds before the lilies bloomed, I -shouldn't have known they were there, and should have cut them all -down together." - -Nettie fell back in her chair with a sigh of delight, watching her -father while with his hands he pulled all the weeds away from the -lilies. - -"Mother," she called, lifting herself forward, and resting her chin -again on the window-sill. - -"Well, Deary," came in a quick voice from the shed, and her mother -appeared in the shed doorway with the dish of boiled potatoes she -held in her hand when Nettie's voice reached her. - -"Mother, will you ask Judith to stop and see my lilies the next time -she goes past?" - -"Your lilies, child?" - -"Yes, my own lilies, there by the well. They came and grew just for -me." - -Mrs. Evans gave a glance toward the well, then hastened to set the -potato dish on the dinner table. - -"Of all things! And how she has wanted to see lilies grow! The -blessed child is watched over and done for as her father and I can't -do. I declare," in a shame-faced way, all to herself, "when such -things happen I wish I was a Christian." - -"Mother, mother," called the happy voice again; "I want Joe to see my -lilies too." - -"Yes, Deary," promised her mother from within the shed. - - - - -X. THE LAST APPLE. - - - "God loves not only a cheerful giver, but a cheerful - worker as well." - - --Fletcher Reade. - -That afternoon as Nettie was slowly rousing herself from her -afternoon nap in her chair, she heard a low, joyful exclamation under -her windows. - -"Oh, lovely. Mrs. Evans, it's like--a poem." - -Then a light flashed over the pale face, and Nettie lifted herself -forward to look, and to speak. - -"O, Judith, I wanted you to see them. You do love pretty things so." - -Judith came through the shed, and up the narrow rag-carpeted stairs -to the open door of Nettie's chamber. - -"I wish you would write a poem for me." - -Nettie Evans was Judith's "public," and a most enthusiastic one; the -young author looked very grave one day when Nettie told her that she -liked her poems better than the ones she read to her from the -Longfellow book. - -"I have brought a poem for you; no one has seen it yet; I've copied -it to send to my Cousin Don; you know he's in Switzerland, climbing -mountains, and having splendid times. It happened one Thanksgiving--I -was here in the country, you remember, with my mother. I saw one rosy -apple left on the top of a tree, and I felt so sorry for it. One day -I thought of it again, and I wrote this." - -Judith drew her chair close to Nettie's and took the folded sheet of -note paper from her pocket. - -"Oh, I wish I could make poems and sew carpet rags," moaned Nettie. - -Judith dared not say she wished she might, she dared not pity her, or -look at her; she unfolded her poem and began to read:-- - - THE LAST APPLE. - - I am a rosy-cheeked apple, - Left all alone on the tree, - And in the cold wind I am sighing, - 'Oh, what will become of me.' - -Nettie nodded approval, and the poet read modestly on:-- - - They've picked my sisters and cousins, - But I was too little to see; - Now, they will be eaten at Christmas, - But nothing will happen to me. - - The beets are pulled, and the parsnips - Are cosily left in the ground-- - When the farmer counts up his produce, - No record of me will be found. - - I was as pretty a blossom - As ever gave sweets to a bee; - But 'mong the good things for winter, - No one will be thankful for me. - - There's place for radish and carrot, - Though common as common can be, - And I wonder, wonder, wonder, - Why _I_ was left on the tree. - - Oh, here comes poor little Sadie, - With her face all wet with tears; - A face so pale and hardened, - But not with the lapse of years. - - Now, fly to my aid, dear cold wind, - And receive my last command,-- - With a twist, and turn and flutter, - _Just drop me into her hand_. - -In Nettie's radiant face and tear-filled eyes Judith found the -appreciation for which her soul thirsted. - -"That's _lovely_," exclaimed Nettie, "may I keep it and learn it?" - -"Of course you may. I'll copy it for you." - -"And I'll say it in the night if I cannot go to sleep. How much I've -had in one day. The lilies and the red apple. Don't you believe that -if you can't go out and get things _they always come_?" - -"But part of the fun is going out to get them," said Judith, and -then, in quick penitence, "but it must be so lovely to have them come -to you." - -"Agnes Trembly came yesterday to make me a new blue wrapper; I like -to have her sew here with me. Her mother is blind and that is harder -than my lot. Agnes said she wished she was a queen. But I never -thought of that." - -"Now I'll tell you a story. There is a little girl somewhere who _is_ -a queen, and sometimes she has to sit in state and receive people, -and do other queenly things. One day when she was playing with her -dolls, what do you think she said?" - -"What?" asked Nettie, her face beaming. - -"_If you are naughty again, I will make you a queen._" - -Nettie laughed to the story-teller's content. - -"Now, I'll tell you a chicken story. This happened to me. Aunt Rody -often lets me help her feed the chickens. We had a brood of little -chickens, and all died but two of them; I don't know why, I took good -care of them. One morning I found the mother dead. And what do you -think?--those two poor motherless little sisters cuddled under their -dead mother's wing. I would like to write a poem about that, only it -breaks my heart, and I like to write about happy things. The next day -one of them died, and the left one hadn't any chicken companion. And -then, what do you think? A hen mother who had only one chicken, -deserted that and went to roost; and this one little black chicken -tried to make friends with the sisterless little white chicken. It -was too pretty to watch them. The one whose mother deserted went into -her little coop and called and called to the other one; but the white -chicken didn't understand at first; when she _did_ understand, the -black chicken made it so plain, and she ran to the coop, and the -little black chicken and the little white chicken cuddled together as -loving and happy as could be." - -"You can put that into a poem," suggested Nettie, her eyes alight -with Judith's presence and stories. - -"Nettie," said Judith, impulsively, "I love to have you to tell -things to." - - - - -XI. HOW JEAN HAD AN OUTING. - - - "Is it warm in that green valley, - Vale of Childhood, where you dwell? - Is it calm in that green valley, - Round whose bourns such great hills swell? - Are there giants in the valley, - Giants leaving foot-prints yet? - Are there angels in the valley? - Tell me--I forget." - - --Jean Ingelow. - -Jean had been crying; in fact, she was crying now, but the tears were -stopped on their way down her cheeks by the rush of her new thought. -She was always having new thoughts; but this was the most splendid -new thought she had ever had in her fourteen years of life. - -"I'll do it!" she exclaimed aloud, springing to her feet. "I'll just -do it, and nobody will know but myself. I'll go away to a new place -and stay two weeks." - -In her delight she clapped her hands and whirled about the room. It -was such a small room to clap your hands and whirl about in. That was -the cause of her tears--that small room; that and the house, the farm, -and everything she had to do--and doing the same disagreeable things -every day, and never going anywhere. - -School closed yesterday; and this morning Sophie Elting, her best -friend, had gone away, for an _outing_ she called it, with a little -city air she had caught from her cousins. She was going to the -sea-shore to be gone two weeks. - -"I'll play go," cried Jean, "and I'll stay at home and do all the -things here that people do when they go on an outing." - -The first thing was to pack up. Sophie had a new trunk, and had shown -her all her pretty things packed snugly in it: cologne, a box of -paper, new handkerchiefs, and ever so many things to go on an outing -with. How could Jean play she had things which she hadn't? And she -had no trunk. She would "pack" in a shawl-strap. - -She put in her Sunday dress, her morning gingham, two white aprons, -her Bible and tooth-brush. She had ever so many things to take on an -outing. In half an hour her shawl-strap was packed. She looked down -at it with a sigh of relief and pleasure. Now she had started. - -"Jean," came up the stairway, "do you want to go to town?" - -Of course she did! The coming back would be "getting there." She was -going into the country for two weeks to board. The boarding was a -part of it. She had never boarded in her life; she would be a summer -boarder at Daisy Farm. - -"There's the butter to take," the voice at the foot of the stairs -went on, "and you may as well get your shoes, and I'll give you -twenty-five cents to spend as you like." - -"Oh, thank you!" cried Jean, delightedly. That would buy a box of -paper and envelopes, and she had twenty cents for stamps. She could -not think of another thing she wanted. - -At six o'clock that afternoon, when Jean drove back into the yard -with her father, she had two packages, her shoes and the box of -paper. She had not been her usual talkative self on the way home. -This gentleman sitting beside her was the farmer to whose house she -was going. He had met her at the train. She was looking about the -country and admiring things; she found seven things to admire which -she had never noticed before. At the tea-table she intended to talk -about them--"rave," as the summer boarders did. - -She went up to her little room and gravely unpacked her shawl-strap, -putting the things into the drawers and the closet. - -Her sister Lottie was setting the tea-table,--not in her play, but in -sober reality,--and it was Minnie's turn to milk to-night. The four -sisters shared the housework with their mother; Jean was number -three. Pet, eleven years old, was the youngest. - -"I must take a great interest in everybody," Jean said to herself. -"Boarders always do. I must try to do good to somebody, as Mrs. Lane -helped me last summer." - -At the supper-table she began to talk about the beautiful five-mile -drive from town, and the sunset from the top of the hill. - -"It _is_ pretty," said Minnie. - -"And the bridge with the willows. It is pretty enough for a picture; -and the ducks sailing down the stream." - -"I always said we had pretty things near home," remarked her father. - -Then Lottie found a nook in the woods to talk about, and Pet told of -a place like a cave, and the view on the top after you climbed the -big rock. The tired mother brightened. After supper Jean followed her -father out the back door and stood beside him. - -"How is the watermelon patch doing?" she asked, in a voice of great -interest, after thinking a minute. - -"Finely! Never so well before. Come and look at it." - -It was a pleasant walk. Jean imagined that she had a white shawl -thrown about her, and once in a while gave it a twitch as she -listened while the farmer talked about his melons. She asked -questions she had never thought of asking before, and learned several -new things about the farm. - -"It's a good thing to be a good farmer," she said. "I never thought -before how much farmers had to know." Her father looked pleased. - -It was Jean's work to wash the milk-pails and milk-pans. She did it -that night with a sense of enjoyment which she had never had before, -for she was simply "helping" of her own accord. She would be very -helpful; she would try to make these strangers care very much for -her. She would watch every day to see what she could do for them. -Mrs. Lane last summer had taught the class in the Sunday-school to -which Jean belonged, and had said that "all must try to be a blessing -to every one whom their life touched." It appeared to Jean that her -life touched everybody's in this house. - -Sunday was a wonderful day. She listened to the new preacher, and the -new Sunday-school was certainly very pleasant. She spoke to a little -girl she had never noticed before, and gave a rose to Julia Weed, -whom she had always disliked. She was trying to be like Mrs. Lane. - -In the evening she stayed at home from church with her mother, -because her mother's head ached; and when, for the first time in her -life, she proposed reading her Sunday-school book to her mother, she -was both pleased and rebuked to hear her reply, "Oh yes, I should -like it! I can't read evenings, and I often think how interesting -your books look." - -"And if I can't finish it to-night, may I read tomorrow night?" Jean -asked eagerly. - -"If I am not too tired." - -"But it will rest you." - -"Perhaps so. It will be something new." - -Something new for her to be thoughtful about her own hard-working -mother! And she had to imagine herself in somebody else's home to -think of it. - -What a day Monday was! She was busy all the morning, "helping," and -she found it good fun. In the afternoon she wrote a long letter to -Sophie, and she had so much to tell that she filled three sheets. In -the evening she read aloud to her mother, and her father listened, -after he read his paper, and said it was a "jolly good book." - -When she left the room to go to bed, she said, "Good night!" Usually -she forgot it. She was careful to remember "thank you," and "please." - -It was not her turn to iron. To-morrow would be a long, hot ironing -day, and there were so many starched things this week. Lottie was in -a hurry to finish the pink muslin she was making for herself. If she -should offer to iron two hours, and let Lottie sew--but how she hated -to iron! - -Still, she could only stay with these people two weeks--and there was -nothing else Lottie would like so much; she and Lottie had not been -very good friends lately, and this would "make up." She was the one -to make up, for she had been cross and had refused to do her work in -order to let Lottie go to the picnic. Minnie did it, and let Lottie -go, and Jean had felt mean ever since. - -But she was only fourteen, and it was vacation. But Mrs. Lane -said--and now she wished she hadn't!--that nobody ever had a vacation -from doing kind things. - -She could help iron next week. This was her week. - -"I guess it's God's week!" This was one of Jean's new thoughts. Going -into your own home like a new somebody was very hard work; she almost -wished she were not a summer boarder, that she had stayed at home! -And this last thought was so funny that the people down-stairs heard -her laughing. - -"Jean is a happy child," said her mother. - -"Yes, she seems to have a new kink," replied her father. "She is -taking a sudden interest in everything. I used to think she hated the -farm and everything about it. The farm is all I've got to give my -girls, and it hurts me to have them care nothing about it." - -"It's vacation, and she's more rested," said Minnie. "She loves books -better than any of us, and studies harder." - -"I don't know what the secret is, but I'm glad of it," her father -replied. - -With a brave heart the next morning Jean asked Lottie if she might -iron two hours and let her sew on her pink muslin. - -"You blessed child!" cried Lottie. "I had thought I must sit up all -night to get it done for tomorrow. Two hours will be a great lift." - -Ironing was hot and hard work, beside being extremely unpleasant work -to Jean; but she pushed the two hours into three, and never was so -happy in her life as when her oldest sister gave her an unaccustomed -kiss, which was even better than her words: "I won't forget this, -Jeanie." - -Wednesday morning Jean remembered that, as a stranger, she must learn -something about the village and the village people. Bensalem was a -pretty village with one long street, two churches, one store, a -post-office, and an old school-house. She had another thought to-day; -this, too, grew out of something Mrs. Lane said at Sunday-school. -"Bind something, if you can; make some good thing fast, like forming -a little society." - -How she would like to do that! She counted over the girls she liked -best. There were nine, and ten would form a society, bound fast -together. This she regarded as a very promising new thought. But what -should it be for? Jean pondered a great deal, but she could think of -nothing but her "outing." - -Her outing! Why shouldn't it be an Outing Society--not to get up real -vacations for people, but to get them out of themselves, and into the -way of helping things along, and beginning right at home. For that -was the curious part of it--that you didn't have to go away anywhere. -It seemed to come to you. - -Jean resolved to call on the girls and tell them about it, and ask -them to come to her house and talk it over. She knew now what she -would call it: The Outing Ten. - -First she would call at the Parsonage and tell Miss Marion about it, -and ask her what to do first and next. - -But she could not tell Miss Marion about it all herself; perhaps -Judith Mackenzie would go; Judith knew Miss Marion better than any of -the girls. She was always staying at the Parsonage "for company" for -Miss Marion. - - - - -XII. A SECRET ERRAND. - - - "Say not 'small event'! Why 'small'? - Costs it more pain than this, ye call - A 'great event,' should come to pass, - Than that? Untwine me from the mass - Of deeds which make up life, one deed - Power shall fall short in or exceed!" - - --Robert Browning. - -On the lounge in the sitting-room, Judith lay cuddled up with a rare -ailment for her, a throbbing headache; Aunt Affy had brought a pillow -from her own entry bedroom, and bathed her forehead with Florida -water; then brushed her hair for a long time and told her a story -about her far-away girlhood, "when Becky and Cephas and I had our -good times. Not that we don't have good times now; Becky has hers up -yonder, and poor Cephas and I do the best we can for each other down -here." - -Judith wondered why she should say "poor Cephas"; he had laughing -eyes, and a merry laugh, and everything that happened to him seemed -just the very best thing that could happen. - -Aunt Rody had brewed a bowl of bitter stuff and stood threateningly -near while Judith lifted her dizzy head and forced herself to taste -it. - -"More," urged Aunt Rody. - -She tasted again. - -"More," insisted Aunt Rody. - -She tasted several times with a look of pitiful appeal that Aunt Rody -resisted. - -"More," commanded Aunt Rody. - -"I can't," sobbed Judith, but she obeyed, and Aunt Rody set the -yellow bowl on a chair by the sofa, that she might taste it whenever -she felt like it. - -Homesick Judith hid her face in the small pillow as soon as she was -left alone, and cried; she cried for her mother not a year dead, for -her father whom she scarcely remembered, for the pretty room she had -with her mother in her own city home, for her picture of the Madonna -with the child, that Aunt Rody declared popish and would not suffer, -even in Judith's own room; then she cried because Miss Kenney had not -come yesterday, as she half promised, and then because Aunt Rody had -made Cephas say that she should not run about in the fields with him, -but stay in the house these wonderful days and sew carpet rags; and -then, if she cried about anything she cried in her sleep; a soft step -was in the room, the lightest touch covered her with Aunt Affy's -fleecy white shawl. - -"Sit down," whispered Aunt Affy's voice, "she is fast asleep; she is -a good sleeper, we shall not disturb her; I shouldn't wonder if she -had fits of home-sickness; she never tells; we are all old folks; -Rody thinks she doesn't need any more schooling because she can do -sums and writes such a handsome hand, so she doesn't go to school--and -doesn't know many young folks. Rody never _did_ understand young -folks, you know that." - -"I should think _you_ knew that," replied the other whispering, -indignant voice. "So Cephas is back again; he was gone five years, -wasn't he?" - -"Five this last time, three the other time." - -Judith stirred, pushed the white wool away from her face, and -listened. - -"He was good to go," replied the still indignant voice. - -Judith made a soft rustle; Aunt Affy did not heed it. - -"Yes, he _was_ good," assented Aunt Affy's sweet, old voice, "he is -always ready to do the thing that's happiest for me. He was so -homesick and wrote such heart-rending letters that I couldn't stand -it. Rody sniffed, as she has always sniffed at us, but she said he -might come back if we were both so set on it, so shamelessly set on -it." - -Judith's little protesting groan was not noticed; then she shut her -eyes and listened, because she could not help it. - -"It's a burning shame, and the sister you have been to her, too. You -took your money and bought your sisters out that you might keep the -old place for Rody." - -"I wanted it for myself, too," was Aunt Affy's honest reply. - -"But you could have taken your money and married Cephas--" - -"But, you see, she never could bear the thought of my marrying at -all; she doesn't dislike Cephas so much, but she wants me all to -herself. She doesn't like men, I'll allow that; she never had any -kind of happy experience herself, unless it happened before I was -born, and she doesn't _know_. After Becky died, Cephas and I had to -comfort each other; Rody never was a great hand at comforting, and -the other girls were all dead or married. She had been a mother to me -all my life; I was a two week's old baby left in her care; and Becky -was only two years old; we were her two babies." - -"You had whippings and scoldings enough thrown in, I'll be bound," -was the visitor's tart rejoinder. - -"The scoldings are thrown in now," said Aunt Affy, with the glimmer -of a smile; "I am only a girl to her; I shall never grow up to her; -not old enough to be married, sixty years old as I am. Cephas told -her yesterday that he would fix up the old house with his own money, -he has considerable laid by, and she dared him to pull off a shingle -or drive a nail. He said she should always be the head of the house, -and she said there was no need for him to tell her _that_. You see -that we could not be happy in making her old age unhappy. She is so -old that defiance might kill her; she is eighty-four." - -"I'd _let_ it kill her then," said Miss Affy's life-long friend. - -"No, you wouldn't. Your sister is your sister, and she is all the -mother I ever knew. Cephas and I jog on together like two old married -folks. She says we will be glad when she is under the sod and we can -have our own way." - -"She might let you have it now, and then you wouldn't be glad," urged -Jean Draper's mother. - -"She cannot let us have it; her own will is too strong for her; when -she gives up to us she will die." - -"Then I'd do it anyway," counselled the other voice. - -"We did talk of that, but we are afraid to--she is so old," whispered -Aunt Affy, feeling faint with the very thought of it. - -"Well, it's an old folks' romance, and I didn't know old folks had -any," said the woman who was married at sixteen. - -But the girl on the lounge with her face in the pillow had listened; -she had listened and learned something Aunt Affy would not have told -her for the world. - -How could she ever look into Aunt Affy's face again? And, oh, how -could she ever love Aunt Rody? - -She groaned, and Aunt Affy came to her and asked if she felt worse. -The neighbor went out on tiptoe; Aunt Rody came from the kitchen to -stand threateningly near while Aunt Affy coaxed mouthful by mouthful -the draining of the bitter bowl. - -While Aunt Rody was taking her nap that afternoon Jean Draper knocked -on the open kitchen door. Judith and Aunt Affy were washing dishes -together at the kitchen sink; Judith gave a cry of pleased surprise -at the sound of the knock and the vision of the girl in the doorway. - -"O, Jean, I _wished_ for you," she said, with the longing for young -companionship in her heart. - -"And I wanted you. I am going to see Miss Marion on a secret errand, -and I can't do it without you. Can you spare her, Miss Affy?" - -"If her head will let her go," began Miss Affy, doubtfully. - -"Oh, that's well," cried Judith, joyfully, "but what will Aunt Rody -say?" she questioned in dismay. - -"I will take care of that," promised Aunt Affy, anticipating with -dread the half hour's scolding the permission would bring upon -herself. - -"You are making her a gad-about just like yourself," the monologue -would begin. - -"Are you _sure_, Aunt Affy, dear?" asked Judith, anxiously. - -"Yes, sure. Run away and put on your new gingham." - - - - -XIII. THE TWO BLESSED THINGS. - - - "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and - He shall direct thy paths." - - --_Prov._ iii. 6. - - "How excellent a thought to me - Thy loving-kindness then shall be! - Thus in the shadow of Thy wings - I'll hide me from all troublous things." - -"My life is like Africa; there are no paths anywhere," said Marion. -She was not petulant; the tone was not petulant; Marion knew she -thought she was bearing her life bravely. The study was cool and -darkened that August afternoon; she lay idly upon the lounge, a fresh -magazine in her lap, and a pile of books on the carpet within reach -of her idle hands. - -A year ago she thought she loved books--and music, and life. - -Roger liked to have her near him while he wrote and studied, but he -did not like her idle moods. This latest one had lasted two days. - -He pushed his large volume away, and taking up an ivory paper cutter -began to run its sharp edges across his fingers. Marion was easily -hurt; he could not advise work as he did yesterday. - -"If your life were like Africa," he began in an unsuggestive tone, -"you would have a beaten track wherever you turned; no unmapped -country in the world is better supplied with paths than this same -Africa that your hedged-in life is like. Every village is connected -with some other village by a path; you can follow ziz-zag paths from -Zanzibar to the Atlantic; they are beaten as hard as adamant; they -are made by centuries of native traffic." - -"I have learned something about Africa," she answered, demurely, "if -not about my life." - -"Which are you the more interested in?" - -"Oh, Africa, just now. I am not interested in my life at all." - -"Marion, dear, is Bensalem a failure?" - -"Yes, as far as I am concerned. Not for you, dear old boy; it is -splendid for you, and for Bensalem. Even Judith listens in church." - -"I know she does. I write my sermons for her." - -"For a girl? How do you expect to reach other people, then?" she -inquired, surprised. - -"The inspiration came to me, that Sunday she told me she was sorry -for not listening, to begin all over again--to look at life from a -fresh standpoint, from the standpoint of youth, ardent, hungry, -sensation-loving youth--" - -"Sensation--" - -"Not in its usual acceptation; truth cannot but give you a sensation; -I knew it would not hurt the old people and the middle-aged to begin -again; to enter the Kingdom of Heaven as a little child, and I have -attempted to teach the children in the Kingdom of Heaven; to talk -simply about the grand old truths; to keep that girl before me as I -thought out my sermons--a thoughtful girl who has had some experience -in life, and when a thought or the expression of it was over her -head, I struck it out." - -"Now I know your secret. 'Simplicity and strength' are your -characteristics, David Prince, our literary blacksmith, who wrote -Bensalem up for the Dunellen _News_, was pleased to say. Shall you -keep this up?" - -"Until I find a better way," he said, contentedly. - -"Everybody listens." - -"Even Miss Rody," he said, smiling at the memory of Miss Rody's face. - -"And all the other old folks. Old folks and children. What about the -young men and maidens?" - -"Aren't 'simplicity and strength' good enough for them?" he inquired, -seriously. - -"It's good enough for me." - -"Not quite," he answered. - -"Why?" - -"You listen, of course." - -"But I do not grow fast enough? Roger, I've stopped growing. I knew -something was the matter with me, and that's it." - -"A pretty serious _it_." - -"I know that better than you can tell me. I wish Judith Grey -Mackenzie--how Aunt Rody brings that out--would give _me_ an -inspiration." - -"Bring her here for a week and I'll promise that she will." - -"Aunt Affy could not spare her. Her yellow head is the sunshine of -that old house. But I'll have her some day. I wish I _owned_ her." - -"I wish you did. I would buy her myself if I had money enough." - -"I wonder who _does_ own her," said Marion; "I forgot that she does -not belong to anybody." - -"She does belong to somebody. Her mother gave her to Aunt Affy." - -Perhaps she belonged somewhat to her "Cousin Don." - -Roger never talked about Don. He never read aloud to her the foreign -letters she saw so often on the study table. - -A sigh came of itself before she could stifle it; the idle fingers -opened the magazine; Roger's pen began to race across the paper. -Voices on the piazza brought Marion to her feet; Judith's voice was -in the hall. - -"O, Miss Marion, we came to tell you--" began Judith. - -"And to ask you how--" continued Jean. - -"To make an Outing Ten," finished Judith. - -At the tea-table Marion told Roger the story of how Jean had an -outing. - -"I wish you might have heard the unconscious way she told it. My life -_is_ like Africa: all beaten tracks. I am to be the President of the -Outing Ten. All Bensalem is to be my own special private outing, but -nobody is to know it." - -"Then, Marion dear, you will have the two most blessed things on the -earth." - -"What are they?" - -"Don't you know?" - -"You think work is one," she said doubtfully. - -"So you think. And companionship is the other." - -"Roger, dear, I'm afraid I haven't given you companionship; I've been -stupid, self-absorbed, idle--" - -"Anything else?" - -"But you have been desolate, sometimes." - -"My work has been my companionship." - -"Then there is only one blessed thing to you," she said, merrily. -"May you get it." - -"I am getting it every day." - -"Then you do not inwardly fret against the limitations of this bit of -a village--" she began, frightened at herself for the suggestion: "I -thought, perhaps, you were _bearing_ Bensalem." - -"So I am, I hope," he answered, gravely, "in my heart, and in my -prayers." - -"I beg your pardon," she returned, flushing under the "splendid -purpose in his eyes." "I might have known you were too broad to feel -narrowed, as I do." - -"You remember what Lowell says: 'There are few brains that would not -be better for living for a while on their own fat.'" - -"And that is better than the fat of the land--which you will never get -in Bensalem." - -"I think I started from my new standpoint without worldly ambition. -Think of Paul writing the Epistle to the Romans from a literary point -of view." - -"Well, then," with a laugh that was half a grumble, "I despair of -you, if you 'take pleasure' as he did in all sorts of infirmities and -limitations--I was beginning to be ambitious for you. You spent all -the afternoon last week with Agnes Trembly's mother, reading to her, -and telling her stories--you do not take time to _study_ as you used -to study. You were such a student. Now all you care for is people--and -the Bible," she ran on, discontentedly; "What does Don think of you?" -she asked, with a sudden flush. - -"He is in despair," he replied, thinking of Don's latest letter of -angry expostulation. - -"He is ambitious," said Marion, reproachfully. - -"So am I," he answered, smiling at the reproach. - -"But in such a way. I like ambition. I would like to do something in -the world myself." - -"The man, or woman, or child, who does the will of God is every day -doing something in the world," he said, seriously. - -For a moment she was silenced, then urged by her own discontent she -burst out:-- - -"But five hundred or a thousand people might as well listen to you, -and be influenced by your 'strength and simplicity,' as this handful -of Bensalem." - -"The perfect Teacher was more than once content with but one -listener." - -"Yes; but his sermon was written and handed down to all the ages," -she answered, in a flash. - -"If one life here in Bensalem is moved, and another life moved by -that, who can tell how far down the ages the influence may go? -Beside, that is not my care," he said, in his rested voice. - -"But _wouldn't_ you, now, candidly, rather influence ten hundred -lives than one hundred?" - -"Candidly, I would." - -"And, yet, you have refused a call to Maverick, and stay stupidly -here." - -"Stupidly is your own interpretation. I will be content to move one -man if I might choose the man. I am determined to learn what can be -done in a village by one man who stays for the 'fat of the land,' the -youth. From Drummond's standpoint, only the boy himself and the young -man understand the boy. My outlook just now is from the standpoint of -that big-eyed, sensitive-lipped Joe, and your Judith. Men and women -are but boys and girls grown tall. I find out the boy; you are -helping me to the girl." - -"I am glad I can help," said Marion, satisfied. - - - - -XIV. AN AFTERNOON WITH AN ADVENTURE IN IT. - - - "Lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil." - - --_Luke_ xi. 4. - - "Lord, Thou knowest all things: Thou knowest that I love Thee." - - --_John_ xxi. 17. - -It was rag-carpet afternoon; it was also another kind of an -afternoon, an afternoon with an adventure in it, and Judith longed -for adventures; but, of course, all she knew, at first, was the -rag-carpet; the adventure was to happen in the kitchen, and the -rag-carpet ball was happening in Aunt Affy's room. - -Judith was a working member of the Outing Ten, but if her outing -meant this rag-carpet ball it was very discouraging, and if it were -not for the pleasure of telling the President about the rag-carpet, -she thought she would resign and become member of a ten that had more -fun in it. - -But then, Miss Marion was doing this kind of thing herself, things -she did not like to do about the house, for she had sent away her -servant and was doing all the work excepting washing and ironing, -and, perhaps, in the village, too, she was doing uncongenial errands; -but, of course, she would never tell the Outing Ten about that; she -was going out to tea and making calls, as she had said she never -_would_ do when she came to Bensalem, and she was taking her music -back and practicing hours every day, and reading solid books, instead -of novels; she had let books and music go for a while, Judith had -heard her say to Aunt Affy, and that Jean Draper's outing had been -the blessing of her life. It was Nettie's blessing, too; she told -Marion she had an "outing" every day; she was patching a quilt and -studying history. - -The history study was a part of Marion's outing, but the Ten did not -know that. - -Aunt Affy, wearing a calico loose gown of lilac and white, was seated -in a rocker at the window combing her long gray hair: her hair was -soft and thick, she twisted it into a coil, and behind her each ear -she brushed a long curl. - -Judith liked to twist these curls around her fingers when she talked -to Aunt Affy. - -"Only a little more to do," encouraged Aunt Affy, giving her coil a -firm twist. - -Sitting on the matting at Aunt Affy's feet the little girl began her -weary work again. - -"Aunt Affy! How did you get your name?" she inquired with the -eagerness of something new to talk about. - -"How did you get yours?" asked Aunt Affy, seriously. - -"But mine is a real name." - -"Isn't mine?" - -"I never heard it before." - -"Some people have never heard of Judith." - -"That is true. Nettie never had." - -"Mine is in the Bible. So is Rody's." - -"_Is_ it? Well, I've never read the Bible through." - -"I will show it to you." - -"Aunt Affy, you and Aunt Rody never look in the glass when you comb -your hair. You sit anywhere. It's very funny." - -"When you have combed your hair sixty and eighty years you will not -need to look in the glass," was the serious reply. - -"It isn't sixty," said literal Judith. "You did not do it when you -were a baby." - -Taking her New Testament in large type from the small table near her, -Aunt Affy found the place and laid it on the arm of her chair; Judith -lifted herself and read where Aunt Affy's finger pointed: "And to our -beloved Apphia--but that isn't Affy," said astonished Judith. - -"It grew down to it when I was a girl, and has never grown up. Shall -I find Rody?" - -Again Aunt Affy found the place, and Judith read. "'And as Peter -knocked at the door of the gate, a damsel came to hearken named -Rhoda.' That's very funny," she said, settling down among her rags. - -"There were eight of us girls, and we all had Bible names: Rody, -Dark, that was Dorcas, Mary, Marthy, Deborah, that's your mother's -mother, Hanner, it is really Hannah, Becky, and Affy the youngest, is -eight. Rody and I only are left. They were all married but Rody and -Becky and me. Cephas was engaged to poor Becky, and she died; he went -away after that, went South, went West, and at last came here; I -wrote to him to come and finish his days with me. Rody wasn't exactly -pleased." - -"Why?" asked Judith, excited over the old folks' romance. - -"She doesn't like new happenings, and she never _had_ liked Cephas." - -"She scolds him," said Judith, with a feeling of sympathy. - -"She scolds me. She scolds the minister. It is only her way of -talking." - -At that moment Aunt Rody's blue gingham sunbonnet appeared at the -window; Judith's nervous fingers worked hurriedly. - -"Not done yet. Jean Draper is worth two of you. The graham bread is -out of the oven, a perfect bake, and I am going to call on Mrs. -Evans, and take Nettie a custard." - -"Well," said Aunt Affy. - -Aunt Rody's hair was white, but if it were soft to the touch, -Judith's fingers would never know; her black eyes were deep set, she -had not one tooth, and her wrinkled lips had a way of keeping -themselves sternly shut, unless they were sternly opened. - -"Joe is hunting eggs; I hope he won't get into mischief while I'm -gone." - -"He hasn't yet," said Judith, Joe's champion. - -Joe, with his closely cut black hair, his grateful eyes, new gray -suit with navy blue flannel shirt, rough shoes, willing and efficient -ways, and his great love for Doodles, was some one not at all out of -place on the "Sparrow farm;" even dainty Judith did not altogether -disapprove his presence at the table. - -The small disciple's forehead was all in a pucker, and the blue eyes -were so filled with tears that there was not room enough in her eyes -for them; one tear kept pushing another down over her cheeks; they -even rolled over her lips and tasted salt. - -"Have you noticed the name on my new darning yarn?" inquired Aunt -Affy, replacing the New Testament on the table. - -"Superior quality," read Judith, taking the card from the basket Aunt -Affy brought to her lap from the table. - -"No; on the top." - -"Dorcas," read Judith. - -"Dorcas. Who is that for?" - -"The name of the man who made it," replied Judith, stopping her -dawdling and threading her needle. - -"I think not." - -"His little girl's name, perhaps," ventured Judith. - -"It may be, for aught I know; but I do not _think_ that is the name -of the wool." - -"Then I don't know," said Judith, interestedly. - -"I know something and I will tell you. A long, long, _long_ time ago, -there was a little girl; I think she learned to sew when she was a -little girl, for she knew how to sew beautifully, and her work was -strong and did not rip easily. Perhaps she began by doing -disagreeable things and then went on to other things until she -learned how to make coats and garments for children and grown-up -people. Her name was Dorcas." - -"Did the man who made the wool into yarn know about her?" asked -Judith. - -"I think so. Almost everybody does." - -"I never heard of her before. Is that all?" - -"No; that is only the beginning. She was a disciple. And disciples -always love each other and work for each other." - -"Do they?" asked Judith, her face glowing. Why, that was splendid and -easy. - -"And she worked for widows and perhaps for their little children, and -they loved her dearly. But she died, and oh, how they grieved! They -sent for another disciple, Peter; they thought he could help them. -His faith was so great that he kneeled down and prayed; then he spoke -to her, and she opened her eyes, and looked at him, and then she sat -up. And then he called the people she had made coats and garments -for, and in great joy they had her back alive again. God was willing -for her to come back to earth and go on with her beautiful work. He -cares for the work of his disciples, even when it is only using -thread and needle." - -Judith's curly head drooped over her hated work; she was so ashamed -of behaving "ugly"; she hoped she had not behaved quite as ugly as -she felt. - -The ball was the required size at last, and she joyfully took it up -in the garret to the barrel that was only half filled. - -Then, aimlessly, she wandered into the kitchen, and there, odorously, -temptingly, under a clean, coarse towel, were the two loaves of warm -graham bread; she thought she cared for nothing in the way of bread, -cake, or pudding as much as she cared for fresh graham bread and -butter. - -And Aunt Rody never _would_ put it on the table fresh. For a slice of -this she must wait until tomorrow night. - -Lifting the coarse towel she peeped, then she touched; another touch -brought a crumb, such a delicious crumb; another, and another, and -another delicious crumb, and the crust of one end of a loaf was all -picked off. - -"Oh, deary _me_!" cried Judith, in dismay. - -Then she covered it carefully, standing spellbound. - -What would Aunt Rody say to her? - -What would Aunt Rody _do_ to her? - -Afraid to go away and leave the bread that would tell its own story, -afraid to stay with it, for Aunt Rody's sunbonnet and heavy step -might appear at any moment, she went to the sink to pump water over -her hands and to decide what to do next. - -Joe was on his way to the barn and stables to gather eggs; Aunt Rody -had made a law that she should not go into any of the outbuildings -without permission,--without _her_ permission; in summer time there -were "so many machines and things around, and children had a way of -stepping into the jaws of death." She missed hunting the eggs. - -The gate swung to, there was a step on the flagged path; with her -hands dripping, she flew up the kitchen stairs; on the landing she -waited, breathless, to hear what Aunt Rody would say. - -The step was in the kitchen, there was a pause,--Aunt Rody must be -uncovering the bread; a smothered exclamation, then a quick, angry -voice: "_That_ Joe! He's always doing something underhanded. He's too -fond of eating; I will not say one word, but he shall not have any of -_this_ graham bread, or the next, if I can help it. When he asks for -it I'll tell him before all the table-full that he _knows why_." - -The awful sentence was delivered in an awful voice; tearful and -trembling, the culprit up the stairway heard every word; it was her -dreadful secret, her guilty secret; she no more dared to rush down -the stairs and confess the theft than she dared--she could not think -of any comparison. - -She fled through the large, unfurnished chamber, known as the -store-room, to her own room, and there, bolting the door, threw -herself upon the bed and wept as she had never wept before; because -she had never been so wicked and frightened before. Joe would be -punished for her sin; she would not dare confess if Aunt Rody starved -him to death. - -"Judith, Judith, come out on the piazza," called Aunt Affy. - -She peeped in the glass: her eyes were red, and her hair was tumbled; -the latter was nothing new, she could sit in the hammock with her -eyes away from Aunt Affy. - -As she stepped from the sitting-room door to the piazza, Joe rushed -around the corner of the house, an egg in each hand, frightened and -out of breath. - -"There's an earthquake--in the southern part of Africa--and I've been -in it; and I'm afraid the house will go in; oh, what shall we do? Mr. -Brush is up in the field--" - -"Stand still, Joe, and get some breath to talk with, and then tell us -what has happened to you," said Aunt Affy, quietly. Joe dropped on -the piazza floor, still carefully holding the eggs. - -"Will the house rock and come down, do you think, Aunt Affy, as the -houses did in the book Judith read?" - -"How did you get all that earth on your clothes and tear your -shirt-sleeve?" Judith inquired, forgetting her red eyes in the latest -adventure. - -"In the earthquake; I went in almost up to my neck, but I held on -with one hand and didn't break the eggs." - -"Where _was_ the earthquake?" she asked. - -"In the sheep pen. I was looking for eggs, and the first I knew I -felt the ground sliding, and I was going down--there was water, for I -heard it splash. I thought you said _fire_ was inside the earth; I -went down into water. And I caught hold of something with one hand -because I had two eggs in the other, and I pulled, and pulled, and -pulled myself up and out." - -"Why, Joe, you poor boy," exclaimed Aunt Affy, in alarm, "that old -cistern has caved in at last, and you've been in it; you might have -been drowned. What a mercy that you are safe. Don't you go near that -sheep pen again until Mr. Brush says you may." - -"I'll _never_ go near it again--I've had enough of it. I _couldn't_ -scream--I tried to, but nobody heard. Are you sure it won't cave in -again, and get here, and swallow up the house?" - -"_That_ will not," laughed Judith, "Oh, you queer boy." - -"Then may I have some bread and butter?" he asked, rising. "I think -it will turn me crazy if it caves in again." - -"Aunt Rody is in the kitchen; tell her your story and ask her for the -bread," replied Aunt Affy. - -Judith trembled so that she could scarcely stand; she dared not -follow Joe; she dared not stay where she was: Aunt Rody herself made -a way of escape for her by coming to the kitchen door with a slice of -graham bread in her hand. - -"Here, Joe: I heard your story. Here's the bread. I hope you'll -behave yourself after this. Now, Judith, you see the reason I keep -you from hunting eggs. You might be dead in that cistern this moment." - -"You couldn't pull yourself up as I did," remarked Joe, giving Aunt -Rody the two eggs as she handed him the graham bread. - -Judith drew a long breath of relief. Now she need never tell; Joe -would not be punished. - -That evening at family prayer Cephas read about the institution of -the Lord's Supper and the betrayal of Christ: Joe shuffled his feet -until a look from Aunt Rody quieted him; Judith looked as if she were -listening, but she did not catch the meaning of a single sentence -until something arrested her rapid, remorseful thinking: "And when -they had kindled a fire in the midst of the hall, and were set down -together, Peter sat down among them. But a certain maid beheld him as -he sat by the fire, and earnestly looking upon him, and said, This -man was also with him. And he denied him, saying: Woman I know him -not." - -Peter was afraid. He was afraid to tell that woman. The small -disciple looked at the old lady sitting in her high straight-backed -chair, with her long hands so still in her lap, her lips tight shut, -her eyes roving from Joe to Judith, and then to Joe, then the -dreadful round again, and she thought the woman that frightened Peter -must have been like Aunt Rody. - -She knew how afraid Peter was. - -She did not hear one word of the long prayer; she knelt near Aunt -Rody; she tried not to sob, or to be afraid, but she _was_ afraid; -not now of being found out, but afraid that she was wicked. As long -as she lived she would never dare to tell. - -And she never did tell, not as long as Aunt Rody lived. - -For many a day her heart was heavy with the sin of allowing the -innocent to be suspected; but she was not a very brave small disciple. - -One night at prayers she surprised them all by saying suddenly and -vehemently: "I don't care if Peter _was_ so wicked; I like him better -than anybody in the whole Bible." - - - - -XV. "FIRST AT ANTIOCH." - - - "How beautiful it is to be alive! - To wake each morn as if the Maker's grace - Did us afresh from nothingness derive, - That we might sing: How happy is our case, - How beautiful it is to be alive." - - --H. S. Sutton. - -It was Saturday afternoon; Judith had been busy in the kitchen all -the morning with Aunt Rody, and she (not Aunt Rody) had kept her -temper; that was one happening that made the day memorable and -delightful, and then there were three others: one was her miracle, -another the maidens that were going out to draw water, and the -disciple from Antioch, and, most memorable of all, the plan for -boarding-school. - -The miracle happened in this way: Aunt Rody sent her to take a basket -of things to Nettie Evans, a "Sunday surprise," Judith called it; -tiny biscuits, jelly cake, and a little round box of figs. - -Nettie had had a wearisome day (very much more dreadful than a -Saturday morning in the kitchen with Aunt Rody, Judith told herself), -and Mrs. Evans thought it better for her not to go up to Nettie's -room, for the pain in her back was better, she had fallen asleep and -she was afraid to have her disturbed. - -"May I get a drink of water?" Judith asked. She always felt thirsty -when she came near the plank that formed the ascent from the ground -where the kitchen had been to the bit of floor that was left for the -sink to stand on. The old kitchen had been torn down this summer, and -nothing remained of it excepting the sink which contained the pump -(the water came from the well where Nettie's lilies grew), the window -over the sink, the roof overhead, and the walls on each side of the -sink. She liked the fun of running up and down this plank, and she -liked to stand and look out of this window toward the east. It was a -window toward the east. Sometimes she thought about the Jews praying -toward the east. She wished once that something would happen to this -window because it _was_ a window toward the east. A window facing the -east in a house was not at all remarkable; but a window that was not -in a house brought itself into very interesting prominence. - -And this afternoon her something happened. There was a wonder in the -heavens. - -It was afternoon; she knew it was, she was sure of it; dinner was -over hours ago; Aunt Rody had helped her wipe the dinner dishes, and -Aunt Affy had gone to town with Uncle Cephas to take the week's -butter to her customers; and she was on her way to the parsonage to -sing hymns with Miss Marion, the hymns for church to-morrow, and she -_never_ went till afternoon. But there it was. The sun was in the -east in the afternoon; round, peering through mist with a pale, -yellow splendor; she saw something that no one in the world had ever -seen. It was the sun rising in the afternoon. - -It must be a miracle; a miracle in the window towards Jerusalem. - -But the sun surely had not stood still ever since morning; it was -high up when she stood in the back yard and rang the dinner bell for -Uncle Cephas and Joe. - -Was it a miracle just for her? - -That _was_ the east; it had been the east ever since she was born; it -had been the east ever since the the world was made; and it was the -_sun_. - -It was nothing to see the full moon in the east; the last time she -went driving with Miss Marion and Mr. Roger they saw the full moon in -the east and he talked about it. This was not the full moon. - -"Mrs. Evans, Mrs. Evans, quick, quick," she called, excitedly, -fearing that her miracle would vanish. - -Hurried steps crossed the new kitchen and Mrs. Evans appeared. - -"What _is_ it, child? Don't wake Nettie." - -"Look," said Judith, with the dignity of a youthful prophetess, -pointing to the apparition; "see the sun in the east in the -afternoon." - -Mrs. Evans stepped up the plank, and looked. It _was_ the sun in the -east in the afternoon. - -"Well, I declare!" ejaculated Mrs. Evans, "that does beat all I ever -saw. Where did it come from? How could it get there?" Startled, she -turned, and toward the west, there was the big, round sun shining in -all his glory. - -"Oh, I see," with a breath of relief; "I thought the world must be -coming to an end. It is the reflection. Look, don't you see? the sun -is opposite the window. But it _is_ a wonderful sight. I wish it -would stay until I could call the neighbors in." - -Judith looked at the west and reasoned about it; she turned toward -the east, then to the west, then to the window again. - -"So it is," with an inflection of disappointment. - -Mrs. Evans laughed softly and hurried back to the new kitchen. - -Judith pumped her glass of water with the radiance of two suns in her -face. - -"Little girl, little girl," called a voice from a buggy in the road, -"will you direct me to the parsonage?" - -"Go on straight up the hill, turn to the right and see the church; -the next house is the parsonage," she replied with ready exactness. - -"Thank you," said a second voice, with a foreign accent; the face -bent forward was very dark, with dark eyes, and dark beard. - -Half an hour afterward she found Miss Marion in her own room, and -before they went down to the parlor to the piano, she and Miss Marion -read together in First Samuel. - -They were reading the Bible through together; Marion told her brother -that it was a revelation to her to read the Bible with a girl, and an -old woman; it was looking forward and looking backward. - -Judith read her three verses and then gave a joyful exclamation:-- - -"'And as they went up the hill to the city, they found young maidens -going out to draw water, and said unto them: Is the seer here? - -"'And they answered them and said, He is, behold he is before you; -make haste, now, for he came to-day to the city, for there is a -sacrifice of the people to-day in the high place; as soon as ye be -come into the city, ye shall straightway find him, before he go up to -the high place to eat, for the people will not eat until he come, -because he doth bless the sacrifice; and afterwards they eat that be -bidden. Now, therefore, get you up; for about this time ye shall find -him.' Oh, Miss Marion, that is like me. I was getting a drink of -water and I sent two men to find the Bensalem seer." - -"Even Saul couldn't find the way without the maidens," reflected -Marion. - -"And they were put in the story for all the world to read about; I -wish people wouldn't forget about girls now-a-days." - -"Who does?" asked Marion; "this is the girls' century." - -[Illustration: "I wish people wouldn't forget about girls -now-a-days." "Who does?" asked Marion; "this is the girls' century."] - -"Nobody ever thinks about me. I am never _in_ things like the other -girls. Aunt Rody will never let me go anywhere; Aunt Affy coaxed her -one day, and cried and said she was spoiling my girlhood, but Aunt -Rody was worse than ever after that. I cry night after night because -she will not let me go to boarding-school. Boarding-school has been -the dream of my life; I make pictures about it to myself. Did _you_ -go to boarding-school?" - -"Yes, for one year, and was glad enough to go home again. I wish you -would come to school to _me_; do you suppose you could?" asked Marion -with a sudden and joyous inspiration. - -"O, Miss Marion," was all the girl could reply for very gladness. - -"We will plan about it, Roger and I. If you can come and stay all day -and study, and take music lessons, three or four days a week, it will -be better than boarding-school for you, and more than you can think -for me. You have been on my mind, but I didn't dare propose anything; -I knew Aunt Affy would not be allowed to have her way." - -Both Judith's arms were about Marion's neck, with her face hidden on -Marion's shoulder. - -"I've wanted a sister all my life," she said laughing and crying -together. - -Sunday morning on entering church her attention was arrested by a -large map stretched across the platform, or half-way across it; the -pulpit had been removed and in its stead were flowers, a row of pink -bloom and shades of green. - -A tall gentleman, with the very blackest hair and beard she had ever -seen, arose and stood near the map. - -How her heart gave a throb when he said, touching a spot on the map: -"That is Antioch, the place where the disciples were first called -Christians. I was born in Antioch, where Paul and Barnabas preached -Christ. I was born in Antioch, and I was re-born in Antioch." - -Judith held her breath. He was a disciple, a Christian come from -Antioch. She drew back, almost afraid; she felt as if Christ must be -there standing very near this disciple. - -He talked about the beautiful city and made it as near and real as -this little village in which there was a church of disciples. It was -like seeing one of the twelve disciples, Peter, or James, or John; or -perhaps Paul, because he had been in Antioch. - -But he said he had been "reborn" there; what could he mean? Re--again; -born again. Was he born twice in Antioch? She had been born only -once. Must every disciple be born over like this disciple who was -born both times in Antioch? - -For a long time she puzzled herself over this new, strange thing; -then, when she could not bear it any longer, she asked Aunt Affy. - -"When he was born, and for years as he grew up, he did not love and -obey Christ, and then the Holy Spirit gave him a loving and obedient -heart, and that loving and obedient heart is so new that it is like -being born over again," was Aunt Affy's simple, and sure unraveling -of her perplexity. - - - - -XVI. ONE OF AUNT AFFY'S EXPERIENCES. - - - "O, Master, let me walk with Thee - In lowly paths of service free; - Tell me Thy secret; help me bear - The strain of toil; the fret of care." - - --Washington Gladden. - -The dream of Judith's girlhood was coming true in a most unexpected -way; she did not go to boarding-school, but boarding-school came to -her in Bensalem; four days every week she studied at the parsonage -with Miss Marion, her cousin Don's "brown girl"; the dinner was the -boarding-school part; often she was persuaded to stay to supper, and -sometimes there would be an excuse for her to remain over night. - -Aunt Rody thought the excuses were much oftener than need be; she -said "it seemed" that something was always going on at the parsonage; -the parsonage was a worldly place with games, and company and music. - -Cephas replied that the parsonage folks were not going out into the -world, but bringing the world in and consecrating it; she must not -forget that "God so loved the world." - -Aunt Rody retorted that He commanded his people not to love it, -anyway. In his slow way Cephas replied: "He never told His people not -to love it _His_ way." - -The worldliness was not hurting Judith; nothing was hurting the -little girl her mother left, when she shut her eyes upon all that -would ever happen to her. - -How it happened that she went to boarding-school she never knew; she -knew Aunt Affy cried and could not sleep all one night, that for once -in his sweet-tempered life Uncle Cephas was angry, and as he told the -minister, "talked like a Dutch uncle to Rody"; she knew a letter came -from cousin Don to Aunt Rody herself, and that Aunt Rody did not -speak to anybody in the house, excepting innocent Joe, for three -whole weeks. - -In spite of Aunt Rody, Agnes Trembly made new dresses from the -materials Miss Marion took Judith to New York to select, and a box of -school books was sent by express, and another box with every latest -thing in the way of school-room furnishing. A bureau in Miss Marion's -room was placed at the disposal of her goods, and one corner of a -wardrobe was made ready for her dresses. - -Still, with all her happy privileges, there was no place she called -home; she said: "Aunt Affy's" and "the parsonage." - -Once, speaking of Summer Avenue, she said "home" unconsciously. She -rarely spoke of her mother. All her loneliness and desolation and -heartaches she poured out in her letters to cousin Don. He -understood. She never thought that she must be "brave" for him. - -Nothing since her mother went away comforted her like her -boarding-school. - -During one heart-opening twilight she confided to Marion about -casting lots in the Bible to find out if she would ever go to -boarding-school. - -"What _did_ you find?" asked Marion. - -If she were shocked she kept the shock out of her voice. She told -Roger afterward she was almost too shocked to speak. - -"The queerest thing that meant nothing: 'And a cubit on the one side -and a cubit on the other side.'" - -"I am glad you found that," said Marion, "I think God wanted to help -you by giving you that." - -"But it _didn't_ help; how could it?" - -"It helps me." - -"It doesn't sound like a Bible verse; it is just nothing," persisted -Judith. - -"God's words can never be 'just nothing.' Those words were something -to somebody, and they are a great deal to me. Do you remember -something Christ says about a cubit?" - -"No; did he ever say anything?" - -"He said this: _Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit to -his stature?_ You were taking thought to add something to your life. -Your thought-taking has not done it," said Marion, thinking that her -own thought-taking had added no cubit to her own life. - -"No, indeed; I never should have thought of the parsonage -boarding-school. Who did think of it besides you, Miss Marion?" - -"Several people who love you. If you had never thought of it, it -would have been thought of for you. In that same talk Christ told the -people: Your heavenly father knoweth that ye have need of all these -things: _for_ your heavenly Father knoweth; that's why we do not have -to think about the cubits. I think I'll give Roger '_For_ your -heavenly Father' for a text." - -"I am so glad," said Judith, with radiant eyes, "I love that 'cubit' -now." - -"So do I. I will certainly ask Roger to preach about our cubit." - -"But don't let him put me in," protested Judith. "I should look -conscious so everybody would know I was the girl. Jean Draper will be -sure to know." - -"He will not let it be a girl. He will make it somebody who was -superstitious, and anxious, and did not trust God, nor know how to -learn his will. Trust Roger for that. I always know when he puts -people in, for we talk it over together; he puts me in so often that -I am accustomed to being made a text of; and his own mistakes and -failures are in all the time." - -"I thought mine were," acknowledged Roger's attentive and -appreciative listener. - -"And Uncle Cephas is sure his are in," laughed Marion. "I think it is -only the outside of us that isn't alike." - -Very often Judith was allowed to sit in the study with her books and -writing. - -Mr. Kenney told her that she never disturbed him, that he would be -disturbed if she were not there with her books and table in the -bay-window. - -"Ask me a question whenever you like," he said one day. - -But her questions were kept for Miss Marion. The year went on to -Judith in household work, in study, in church work and "growing up" -with the village girls; Nettie Evans and Jean Draper were her chief -friends. The year went on to Marion. June came; the new minister and -his sister had been a year in Bensalem. - -Marion told him that his sermons were growing up, because his boys -and girls were growing up. - -In this year Marion Kenney had discovered Aunt Affy. - -She said to her one afternoon in the entry bedroom: "I was hungry to -find you; I knew I wanted somebody. I knew you were in the world, -because if you were not in the world, I should not be hungry for you." - -"'If it were not so, I would have told you,'" said Aunt Affy, in the -confident tone in which she always repeated the Lord's own words. - -Judith heard the words: the wonderful words, and in her fashion, made -a commentary upon them: when things were not so, and couldn't be so, -God told you, so that you needn't be too disappointed; he wouldn't -let you hope too long for things _and build on them_--that is, if you -were not wilful about them. You might think just a little while about -a thing, and not be silly about it, and if it were not so you would -soon find out. She had found out about boarding-school--only she had -been pretty bad about that all by herself, and did not deserve to -have Miss Marion for a teacher. - -_Was Miss Marion paid?_ She had never thought of it until this moment. - -It was "rag carpet afternoon." Judith coaxed Aunt Rody to allow her -to take her half-finished ball and pile of rags up garret again, -after Miss Marion came, but Aunt Rody sternly refused: "When I was a -little girl I did my stent, company or no company. You can see Miss -Kenney after you are through." - -"But I am so slow," sighed the rag-carpet sewer. - -"Be fast, then," was the grim advice. - -Judith and her carpet rags were on the floor of the entry between the -two bed-rooms; Aunt Rody was sitting in her bed-room in a rocker -combing her long gray hair; the door of Aunt Affy's room opposite was -open; Aunt Affy was seated in her rocker mending the sleeve of a coat -for Cephas; Marion Kenney in her privileged fashion had come into the -back yard and knocked at the open entry door. - -Lifting her head, Judith saw her in the rush-bottomed chair; she had -thrown her hat aside, her face was toward Aunt Affy. - -Marion Kenney was Judith's ideal; she was such a dainty maiden, with -brown hair and brown eyes, the most bewitching ways, and so true. - -It was happiness enough for Judith to sit or stand near her to watch -and to listen; and, this afternoon, she had to sit in the entry far -away from her and sew carpet rags. - -"Aunt Rody," called Marion across the hall, in an audacious voice, -"may Judith bring her ball and rags in here?" - -"Affy doesn't want that room cluttered up," was the slow, ungracious -response. - -"Oh, yes, I do," said Aunt Affy, eagerly. "I like it cluttered up." - -"Go then, Judith," was the severe permission; "you are all children -together, I verily believe." - -With a merry "Thank you" Marion sprang to help gather the rags, and -deposited them and Judith on the rag carpet between herself and Aunt -Affy. - -If it had not been for the rags and the ball that grew so tediously, -there would have been nothing in the world for Judith to wish for. - -"Aunt Affy, I brought a question to-day, as I always do," began -Marion, and Judith's fingers stayed that she might hear the question -and the answer. - -She did not know how to ask Marion's questions, but she did know how -to understand something of Aunt Affy's answers. In her spiritual and -intellectual appreciation she was far ahead of anyone's knowledge of -her. She had a talent for receptivity and, girl as she was, for -discipline. - -"If you had read the Bible through forty times, as Aunt Affy has, you -would know all the answers," said Judith. - -"Forty times," repeated Marion, in amazement. - -"I did not tell her; she found it out," replied Aunt Affy, with -humility; "I read my mother's Bible, and Judith found dates and -numbers in the back of it, so I had to tell her it was the number of -times I had read it through." - -"You were as young as I when you began," said Marion. - -"I was twenty; I felt so alone somehow, that year, I yearned for it. -I read it through in less than a year, then I began again, and next -year again, now it is second nature; I should be lost without it." - -"What _is_ second nature?" asked the girl on the floor, among the -carpet rags. - -"It is something that is so much a part of yourself,--that comes after -you have your first nature--that it is as much your nature as if you -were born first so," answered Aunt Affy with pauses for clearness. -"You feel as if you were born the second time, and it would be as -hard to get rid of as though you were born the first time with it." - -"Carpet rags will never be my second nature," sighed Judith, picking -up a long, red strip. "I wish reading the Bible would." - -"Aunt Affy, it is only this," began Marion, again, flushing a little -with the effort of bringing her secret into spoken words. "I want -somebody to do good to; I have my class in Sunday school, and that is -a great deal, but it doesn't satisfy--and there must be somebody; if -it were not so, I wouldn't be so hungry to do it. I say it with all -humility; I know there is something in me to give, and it is growing. -But I don't know how to find somebody." - -Judith's fingers dropped the long, red strip; it would be a story to -hear Aunt Affy tell Miss Marion how to find somebody. - -"Then, you are just ready to hear my story." - -"I knew you had it; I saw it in your face." - -"It is one of the true stories, the stories as true as Bible stories, -that you and I are living every day." - -How Judith's face glowed. Was _she_ living a true story? As real as -the Bible stories? - -"God helps and hears now, as quickly, as willingly, as sufficiently, -as he did in the old Bible times; we live in the new Bible times. I -heard a woman once wishing for a _new_ Bible, the old Bible seemed -written so long ago, and about people who lived so long ago. We are -making a new Bible; our life is a new Acts of the Disciples." - -And she was in it? How could Judith think of carpet rags? Unless -carpet rags were in it, too. - -"I like that," said Marion, "for Acts has been called the Gospel of -the Risen Lord, and we know He _is_ risen, and with us in the Holy -Spirit." - -Aunt Affy was silent a moment; like Judith her fingers stayed and -would not work. - -"Yes," she said, too satisfied to say another word. - -"Aunt Affy's Bible is full of marks and dates," said Judith, "as if -she were writing her new Bible in her old one." - -"Now I'll tell you how I found somebody. I wanted somebody to give -to, as you do. I felt full of good things to give. The village was -more full of young people then; now the boys go to the city, or away -off somewhere, then they stayed and married village girls. There were -people enough, but I did not know how to find the one willing to take -something from me. So I prayed about it: my giving, and the somebody. -The first thing I learned when I began to live in the Bible was to -pray about everything as Bible folks did--I wanted to do all the right -things they did, and shape my life as near to God as some of them -did." - -Aunt Affy never talked as naturally as when talking to girls; she -felt that step by step she had been over their ground. As Rody said, -Affy had never grown up. A woman apart from the world, she lived a -wide life; every day her clear vision swept from childhood to old -womanhood. - -"Before the answer came I read in the Old Testament (for all these -things happened for our sakes, the New Testament tells us, throwing -light on the old stories), three verses in the first chapter of -Judges. How I studied it. And how much for myself I found in it--and -for you. Joshua was dead; the children of Israel had no human -counsellor, so 'they asked the Lord.' They knew he would speak to -them as plainly as Joshua had. They had work to do, as you and I -have; God's own planned work. They asked who should go up first to -the work; the Lord said: Judah. That was plain enough. As plain as he -says to you: 'Marion, do this.'" - -"_How_ does he say it to me?" - -"In two ways. First by giving you something to give. Then giving you -the longing to find somebody, to give to." - -"Yes," said Marion, in a full tone. - -"With the permission he gave a promise." - -"I _like_ a promise to work on; I feel so sure," said Marion, -brightly. - -"This promise was: Behold I have delivered the land into his hand. It -is given to him, still he must go and get it; he must work and get -it. God does not often put ready-made things into our hands; if he -did we would not be co-workers." - -Judith understood. Aunt Affy would not have thought of telling these -things to Judith. - -"That is his way of working for us, working _in_ us. His work does -not interfere with our work, only makes our work sure and strong. We -speak the words; he keeps them from falling to the ground. Judah was -the strongest tribe; he had been made ready for pioneer work; the -first thing he did was to speak to Simeon, his brother, and say: Come -with me. He found somebody to work with him. But he had to go first. -He chose Simeon. We may choose somebody to work with us." - -"But, Aunt Affy, I meant somebody to work _for_," replied Marion, who -had a mission to somebody. - -"There is nobody in the world to work _for_; it is always somebody to -work with. We are all co-workers with God. The somebody you wish to -find is a co-worker, too. Why not? Has God chosen only _you_ for His -work?" - -Marion looked ashamed; frightened at herself, and ashamed. - -"How could I be so proud?" - -"Oh, we all can," said Aunt Affy, smiling. "And this brings me to my -own story." - -"The new Bible," said Judith, eagerly. - -"One day I asked our Father to bring some one to me; my life has -never been a going out, for Rody could never spare me, it has been a -bringing in, instead; then I came in here and read about Judah and -Simeon, and waited. The waiting is always a part of it." - -"Why?" asked Judith impatiently. - -"Because God says so; that is the best reason I know. And my somebody -came. Somebody to help in the work planned for both of us. And the -happy thing about it (one of the happy things) was that the somebody -started to come to me before I began to ask. Sometimes, people say -things will happen if we don't pray; perhaps they will, it is not for -me to say they will not, but the happening will not be in _answer to -prayer_, and that has a joyfulness of its own, that nobody knows -except the One who answers and the one who prays. That is a joy too -great to be told. Sometimes, I know that I have been as happy over an -answered prayer as I _can_ be. And I can be very happy," Aunt Affy -said, with happy tears shining in her eyes. - -"This somebody was not anybody new, or strange, or very far off; when -I thought about it there was no surprise in it; it was somebody who -had been coming to meet me a long while--in preparation. Then, we were -ready to be co-workers in a very simple way, making no stir, but I -trust our work together will not prove hay or stubble in the last -day. It was somebody I chose myself; we do a great deal of our own -choosing. But it was God's work and God's workers, like Judah and -Simeon. There was prayer first, and Judah using his knowledge and -judgment. No wonder God could keep his promise; they helped him keep -his promise, as you and I do. Do you remember what Andrew did after -Jesus called him and asked him to spend that day with him? '_He first -findeth his own brother._'" - -"My only brother _is_ found," said Marion. "Now some one else may be -'first.'" - -"And I haven't any," said listening Judith. "But I have my cousin -Don; I wonder about him." - -"We each have our own; whoever we find is our own. This is our own -world," Aunt Affy replied in her happy voice. - -Marion's question was answered. Aunt Affy always understood what was -surging underneath her restless, foamy current of talk. - -Since she had known Aunt Affy she had grown quieter; she had come to -Bensalem "in a fume," she told Aunt Affy, and the air, or -"something," was making things look different. - -Aunt Affy smiled her wise, sweet smile; she knew the time came to -girls when things had to "look different." - - - - -XVII. THE STORY OF A KEY. - - - "What time I am afraid, I will - Trust in Thee." - -Aunt Rody had a way of bringing her work and sitting somewhere near -when Marion came; the girl's vivacity, and gossip of village folks, -gossip in its heavenliest sense, attracted the hard-visaged, -hard-handed, sharp-tongued old woman. - -An afternoon with Marion Kenney was to the old woman, who never read -stories, what a volume of short stories is to other people; stories, -humorous, pathetic, and always with a touch of the best in life. And, -somehow, the best found an answering chord in something in Aunt Rody. - -But for that something nobody could have lived in the house with Aunt -Rody. - -The door across the hall was open; all was quiet within the small -bedroom. - -For the world Aunt Rody would not acknowledge any weakness by -bringing her chair into Affy's room, or even into the entry. She was -not fond of company; and all Bensalem knew it. Cephas asked her years -ago if she wanted to be buried in a corner of the graveyard all by -herself and the brambles. - -"Heaven is a sociable place, Rody, and you might as well get used to -it." - -Aunt Affy's story was done, there was no sound in the other bedroom; -Judith picked among her colored strips. - -"I had a letter from my cousin Don last night, Miss Marion," said -Judith, "and he said he was glad I loved the parsonage." - -"Did he?" asked Marion, twisting one of Judith's curls about her -finger. - -"O, Judith, I know you want me to tell you a story," she said -hastily, as Aunt Affy slipped on her glasses again and took the coat -sleeve into her hand. To Marion that coat sleeve was a part of Aunt -Affy's "new Bible." - -"Oh, yes," replied Judith, with pure delight. - -"Judith would have enjoyed the age of tradition," said Aunt Affy; -"just think," in her voice of young enthusiasm, "instead of reading -it, what it would be to hear from Andrew's own lips the story of that -day." - -"We are living there now," said Marion; "I am. The title of my life -just now is 'The Parsonage story of Village Life.' But the story I -want to tell Judith to-day is an episode in my own life. Seven years -ago. I haven't even told Roger yet, and I tell him everything. I -think I never told any one before. I used to be at the head of things -in those days; father was often away, and the children were all -younger, except Roger, and mother wasn't strong. We lived in an old -house in a broad city street, away back, with a box-bordered yard in -front, and lilacs, and old-fashioned things behind; we were all born -there, even Roger, the eldest, and our only moving times was in the -spring and fall cleaning. Once a friend of mine moved, and I was -enough in the moving times to be there at an impromptu dinner; we -stood around a pine table in the kitchen, or sat on anything we could -find, a firkin, or peach basket turned upside down, and they let me -eat a piece of pie in my fingers. All I wanted was to do something -just like it myself. And when mother said I might stay all my -birthday week and help Aunt Bessie move, I thought my ship had come -in, laden with moving times. - -"Aunt Bessie lived in the city in a beautiful home, but something had -happened that summer; Uncle Frank was in Europe and could not come -home, and Aunt Bessie and the children had to go into the country for -a year. - -"The 'country' was only seven miles away; first the train, then the -horse cars, and, then, a two-mile drive. - -"The wagons from the country came for the things Monday morning; -there were two big loads (everything else had been sold), and in the -country home we expected to find new and plain furniture that had -already been sent from the stores. - -"Monday the children and I had a hilarious time at dinner; moving -times had begun, and I _did_ eat a piece of pie in my fingers. I was -too full of the fun of things to notice that Aunt Bessie ate no -dinner, and Elsie and I were teasing Rob in noisy play after dinner, -and did not see that she was very white and scarcely spoke at all. - -"'Marion,' she said at last, 'I cannot conquer it; I've tried for -half the day and all night; I cannot hold up my head another minute; -one of my terrible headaches has come upon me. Jane will have to stay -here with me and baby and Rob--do you think _you_ could--but no, you -couldn't--it's too lonely for you--and I may not get there to-night.' - -"'Go to Sunny Plains alone--and have an adventure! Oh, Aunt Bessie! -It's too good to be true.' - -"Unmindful of her headache I clapped my hands, and danced Rob up and -down. It was all my own moving time. - -"'But, Marion, what would your mother think?' she protested, weakly; -'of course there are near neighbors--and you might take something to -eat--and, if I do not get there, you must go across the way and stay -all night. The old man who had the two white horses--you remember him, -said he was our nearest neighbor, and he hoped we would be -neighborly. He said he had a daughter about your age--you might ask -her--if I _do_ let you go--to stay with you all night.' - -"'But, after all,' looking at our trim, colored maid of all work, -'perhaps Jane may better go and you stay with me. And--' - -"'Oh, no, ma'am, oh, no, indeed, ma'am,' tremulously interrupted Jane -(she was only two years older than I). 'I couldn't think of it; I -should die of fright. I never lived in a wilderness, and I expect to -give warning the first week, for I never can bear the country.' - -"'Now, Aunt Bessie, you see I have to go,' I persuaded. 'Jane can't -help being afraid--and I didn't know how to be afraid--really, I don't -know what to be afraid of. Let Elsie go with me, and we'll do -everything ourselves--have the house all in order for you to-morrow -morning, and have the most glorious time we ever had in our lives. My -Cousin Jennie isn't fifteen, and she stayed a week over alone in the -country while Uncle and Auntie were away. Oh, _do_ let us go, Aunt -Bessie.' - -"'Somebody must, I suppose,' half consented Aunt Bessie, who was -growing whiter every moment; 'Elsie, are you brave enough to go with -Marion?' - -"'Yes, mamma,' said nine-year-old Elsie, in her grave little way, -'_but I don't know what the brave is for_.' - -"'I'm glad you don't,' smiled her mother. 'Well, Jane--I hope I am not -doing wrong--fix two boxes of lunch--and, you know you take the train -to Paterson and then the horse-cars to Hanover--I will give you five -dollars, Marion, you will have to take a carriage at Hanover--but you -know all about it--you went with me to look at the house--and you know -where to have the furniture put as I told you that day--and you can -get things at the store--half a mile off--Jane, you will have to keep -Rob and baby--Marion, I don't know _what_ your mother will say--it's -well there was a load of things left so that I may have a bed -to-night--' - -"During this prologue my feet were dancing, and my fingers rubbing -each other impatiently, I was so afraid she would end with a -sufficient reason for not allowing us to go. I could not believe that -we were really off until we sat in the train, each with a huge, -stuffed lunch-box, and I with five dollars in my pocketbook and my -head confused with ten thousand parting directions, among which was, -many times repeated: 'Be sure to _ask_ that girl to stay all night -with you.' - -"At the terminus at Hanover we got out and stood and looked around. -Elsie was a little thing, but she was wise, and I liked to ask her -advice. - -"'Aunt Bessie found a horse and a carriage at the blacksmith's shop -that day, didn't she?' - -"This was hardly asking advice, but Elsie brightened, and answered -deliberately: 'We walked on a canal-boat, then, to the other side, -for the bridge was being built.' - -"'Then we are in the right place, for there's the new bridge,' I -exclaimed, relieved, for I missed the canal boat we had that day made -a bridge of. - -"'And we went down that way to the blacksmith's shop,' she said -pointing in a familiar direction. Yes, I remembered that. The -immensity of my undertaking was beginning to press upon me; I was -glad I had brought Elsie. - -"With a business-like air we crossed the bridge, and walked along a -grass-bordered path to the blacksmith's shop; there seemed to be two -shops in the long building; before one open door a horse was being -shod, before the other a group of men stood with hands in their -pockets watching a fire that had died down into a red-hot circle--the -circle looked like red-hot iron. As we waited for the horse to be -harnessed and brought, Elsie and I stood across the street watching -the red-hot iron ring--as large as a wagon wheel. - -"Elsie looked as though she were forgetting everything in that red -wonder, and I began to feel a trifle strange and lonely, for my -little cousin was so self-absorbed that she was not much company. - -"'Hallo, there!' called the blacksmith as a boy drove a two-seated -wagon out from behind somewhere. - -"With my best business air I asked the price before we stepped up -into the wagon and replied, 'Very well,' to his modest one dollar. - -"The drive was beautiful; Elsie looked and looked but scarcely spoke. -But she did exclaim when we crossed the railroad, at the tiniest -railroad station, we, or anybody else, ever saw. - -"It was a brown shed, without a window even--the door stood wide open, -there was no one within, no stove, no seats, no ticket office. - -"'Well, we are in the wilderness,' I said aloud. - -"And then, the 'store.' I wish I could tell you about that store. It -was about as large as--a hen-coop, everything, everything in it. I got -out and went in, for Aunt Bessie had asked me to inquire for letters -which she had directed to be sent to Sunny Plains. The post-office -was a rude desk and a few cubby-holes up on the wall above it; I saw -a letter laid on a meal sack--this place behind the store seemed to be -both post-office and granary. - -"'I'll be down by and by--you are the new people, I suppose; I saw -your things go by,' remarked a pleasant young man behind the counter; -'I'll come for orders. I hope you will trade with us.' - -"'Thank you, I suppose so. And I wish you would bring some kerosene,' -I said, remembering that I must burn a lamp all night. - -"Along the half mile on the way to the new house were scattered -several farmhouses, then came the church, and churchyard, and, on a -rise beyond the churchyard, a pretty house. - -"'_That's_ it,' Elsie said, 'I know the house.' - -"The key was in the possession of the white-haired old man with the -two horses, and his house was opposite the church. - -"Elsie was too shy to go to the door and knock and ask for Mrs. -Pettingill's key, but I was very glad to go; I began to feel that I -would like to see the girl who would stay all night with us. She -answered my knock, a tall girl, with an encouraging face. She brought -the key, saying the wagons were all unloaded; two had come Saturday -with things; her father had said my mother and all the family were -coming before night. - -"'Aunt Bessie was too ill,' I replied, glad to have the neighborly -subject opened so easily, 'and she said I might ask you to come over -and stay all night with Elsie and me.' - -"'Oh, I couldn't,' she answered, hastily; 'I'm going away--I'm all -dressed now. I'm sorry, too,' she added, sympathetically, at -something in my face, 'but I can't disappoint my grandmother; she -sent for me because she is sick.' - -'Then, of course, you will have to go. (Then I began to know what -'brave' meant.) Thank you for the key.' - -"Up the steep, weed-tangled drive we went to the side door; the -boy-driver unlocked the door for us, giving a view of the moving -times within. I paid him his dollar, and he drove away, leaving us in -the wilderness. - -"Elsie stood and looked around as usual. - -"It _was_ a wilderness, a wilderness everywhere; the two-story house, -painted brown, with red trimmings, was set in the middle of a large -field; it had been untenanted for two years; the hedgerows had grown -luxuriant, the grass was knee-deep; the house faced the west (the -driver told me that), and the west this August afternoon was an -immense field of cabbages bordered by tall trees; above it was the -sky, beyond that might be anything, or everything; at the east -stretched a mown field, dotted with trees, an apple-tree that looked -a hundred years old near the fence, then a thick woods, over the top -of which ran a line of green, low hills; among the greenness a red -slanting roof was visible; at the south stretched other fields, among -the trees a white house, with outhouses, a well-sweep; at the north, -beyond two fields, in which cows were pasturing, in a grove, a thick, -green grove, was the churchyard, with rows and rows of white stones, -now and then a white or a granite monument; the brown church-tower -arose above the tree-tops. And this was my wilderness for a night, -with the sky, the protecting, loving sky over all, and bending down -to enfold us all into its sunshine. - -"'It's pretty,' said Elsie. - -"'Yes, it is pretty. Now we must go in and go to work.' - -"The opened door led into the small dining-room; small and so -crowded; as my big brother said, there was a place for everything, -and everything was in it. - -"The front parlor, back parlor, hall, all crowded; up stairs there -was nothing but emptiness and roominess. - -"The kitchen, such a pretty kitchen, was crowded with everything, -too--and a pine table, a firkin, and an up-turned, or down-turned -peach basket. - -"I was in a whirl, an ecstasy, an enthusiasm; but as somebody -remarks, nothing is done without enthusiasm; now what should I do -with mine, that, and nothing else? - -"Suddenly, to Elsie's great perplexity, I gave a shout and rushed out -the dining-room door, and down through the tangles into the road. - -"I had espied two men, working men, in shirt sleeves, with coats -thrown over their arms. Farmers, or farmer's sons, probably, great, -true-hearted sons of the soil, knightly fellows who were ready to-- - -"'Are you--do you know anybody--' I began, breathless, and with flying -hair. - -"They stopped and gazed at me. - -"'We have just moved in. I would like things moved, and bedsteads put -up, and boxes opened.' - -"'We can do it,' said one promptly. - -"He had lost one eye; the other eye looked honest. - -"'Yes, we're out of the work,' said his companion. - -"He had a stiff neck; he did not look quite so honest. - -"'Can you come now?' I faltered. - -"'Yes, right off. Come, Jim,' was the cheerful response. 'All we want -is to be told what to do.' I could always tell people what to do; at -home I was called the 'manager.' - -"For two hours I kept those men busy; Elsie, with grave eyes and -sealed lips, followed us about. I tried to forget the stiff neck, and -the eye that did not look honest, and had forgotten both, when there -was a heavy rap on the open dining-room door. - -"There stood the young man from the store. - -"I had forgotten that I did not like those two busy men, who never -spoke unless spoken to, still I was glad enough to cry when I saw -this familiar and friendly face. - -"I had known him so long ago I could tell him anything. - -"'H'm. Somebody to help you,' he said, stepping in, pad and pencil in -hand, for an order. - -"The men were in the back parlor; one was unpacking a box of books, -the other was sweeping. - -"Yes," I replied confidently, "I needed help and I called them in. I -don't believe--" my voice sinking to a whisper, "that they are tramps, -do you?" - -"Oh, no. They are hatters. They have been about here two or three -years; the factory is closed. The worst thing about them is drink. -They will drink up all you give them. Still, it was hardly a right -thing for you to do." - -"Elsie's arm was linked in mine, her big eyes fixed on the young -man's face. - -"'A thing is always right--after it is done,' I said desperately. - -"'Whew! you are a wise one,' he said quizzically. 'I've brought -kerosene--have you lamps for to-night? Oh, yes, I see you have. Sugar, -bread coffee, tea, what will you have?' - -"I gave the order; he wrote it, then lingered. - -"'They are about done for to-night, I suppose.' - -"'Yes, I shall send them away.' - -"He drove away, and I was left with my hatters. - -"'You have worked two hours,' I said; 'what do I owe you?' - -"The man with one eye looked at the man with a stiff neck. - -"'Fifty cents, eh, Jim?' - -"'That's about it,' said Jim. - -"I did not bring my pocket-book down stairs, there were two bills in -it; I handed each a twenty-five-cent piece with the most reassuring -and disarming air (one air was for myself, the other for them), and -thanked them, hoping they would soon have work at their trade. - -"They said 'thank you' and 'good-night,' and Elsie and I were left -alone. - -"'Aren't you hungry?' asked Elsie, 'It is late and dark.' - -"'So it is: we will have supper in the kitchen--and I will fill a lamp -to burn all night.' - -"That supper was not quite as much fun as I thought it would be; -Elsie munched a sandwich and wished she were home; out the window the -fire-flies were glistening in the tall grass; the gravestones loomed -up very white and tall and stiff. - -"'We'll go to bed early,' I said cheerily, 'and be up early in the -morning to put everything in order. Aunt Bessie will be sure to be -here early.' - -"Elsie followed me up stairs still munching a sandwich. She, too, had -learned what it was to be 'brave.' - -"The hatters had put up a bedstead and laid a mattress on it; the bed -clothing lay in a pile on the bare floor. - -"I made the bed while Elsie finished her sandwich. - -"'May I brush out your hair and braid it?' asked Elsie. - -"'Yes, in a minute. Let's go down stairs and look at all the doors -and windows again.' - -"The fastening on every door and window was tried anew. We were -locked in. The world was locked out. I did not look out again at the -fire-flies. - -"I sat down before the bureau while Elsie stood behind me and brushed -and braided my long hair; doing my hair would comfort her if anything -could. - -"But what would comfort me? - -"My _Daily Light_ I had put in my satchel; I liked to have it open on -my bureau; it was bound in soft leather, two volumes in one: I found -the date, August XV., in the Evening Hour. - -"'Read aloud,' said Elsie. - -"My glance caught the large type at the head of the page. My heart -beat fast, the tears started, but I cleared my throat and read -unconcernedly: 'I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, -and speak comfortably unto her.' - -"'Read it again,' said Elsie, brushing softly. I read it again. Elsie -undressed and crept into bed. - -"'You didn't say your prayers,' I remonstrated. - -"'I like to say them in bed,' she replied. - -"So did I that night. - -"I placed the lamp, burning brightly, on the floor in the hall -opposite my door, leaving the door wide open, then I lay down, and -said my prayers in bed. - -"Elsie was soon asleep; my prayer ended with the earnest petition, -several times repeated: 'Please let me go to sleep quick and stay -asleep all night.' - -"Then I watched the light, and thought about home, and fell asleep. - -"A voice awakened me: Elsie was sitting up in bed:-- - -"'I'll do your hair, Marion,' she said thickly, talking in her sleep. - -"I pressed her down, and covered her; she did not waken. But I was -awake, wide awake, alone in a great wilderness. There was no sound, -no sound anywhere, but a stillness like the stillness of death. - -"Then sh--sh--sh--a hush, a soft pressing against something--a padded -shoulder against a door, a soft fist at a window; then the stillness -like the stillness of death. I was awake; I did not sleep. - -"The soft, soft sound came again and again; the softest sound I had -ever heard, and then the stillest silence. - -"Should I get up, bring the lamp in, and lock the door? - -"But suppose there were no key in the door--it was swung back, I could -not see the inside key-hole; if I should get up and find no key, and -could not lock the door, I should confess to myself that I was -afraid--how could I lie there, with the door shut and not locked, and -be afraid? _I was afraid to be afraid._ I would rather lie there, and -look with staring eyes at the lamp and the wide stairs, and listen, -and listen, with my very breath, and know that I was not afraid." - -"Oh, dear!" cried Judith, with a choking in her throat. - -"Morning came. Oh, that blessed streak of dawn. I arose and slowly -pushed the door so that I could see the lock. - -"_There was no key._" - -"Oh!" cried Judith, with a sudden, sharp breath, cold to her very -finger-tips. - -"That day was the happiest day of my life. I never knew before how -happy I _could_ be. I had learned that I could be kept from being -_too_ afraid." - -"Only just afraid enough," laughed Judith, glad that the laugh was -not frozen in her throat. - -"How I scampered around that day and helped, and scampered around and -didn't help. That was years ago, and I haven't told the story yet. -That _no key_ was one of my turning-points." - -"I wish I might have a turning-point," said Judith, "only I never -could bear to be afraid." - -"Being afraid doesn't hurt," consoled Aunt Affy; "you are glad you -were afraid after you get out of the wilderness." - -"What did your point turn you around _to_?" questioned Judith, who -had learned from her mother that something always happened next. - -"To knowing I would always be safe," said Marion, "no matter how deep -I get into the tangles in my wilderness." - -"Yes," responded Aunt Affy, "we only _think_ we are hurt." - -"Was it all wilderness?" asked Judith. - -"It appeared so to me. We took a drive one day into another -wilderness--Meadow Centre; that was almost more a wilderness." - -"I know Meadow Centre," said Aunt Affy; "Cephas has a cousin there, a -kind of cousin by courtesy, and he is always promising that he will -take me over there. His name is Richard King; he has just come to -take charge of the church. Cephas says he is a splendid worker, as -big as a giant and as simple-hearted as a child." - -"Is he old like Uncle Cephas?" Judith inquired. - -"No, child, he's young like our minister. He preached here before -your brother had the call, Miss Marion; Cephas wanted him, but he -wouldn't leave that going-to-pieces church and congregation over -there. Cephas told him he was staying by the ship to see it go to -pieces, and he said he wanted to see it go to pieces, then." - -"Meadow Centre is a part of my wilderness; I would like to see the -place again. I have a very warm feeling for my wilderness." - -"And now you are in the Promised Land," said Judith; "do people have -to go through the Wilderness first?" - -A warning voice came from across the hall: "I'd like to know if your -ball is getting bigger, Judith." - -Judith's guilty fingers snatched her needle, and she began stitching -a black strip to a brown strip as Aunt Rody had expressly forbidden -her to do. - -"They don't have to _stay_ in the Wilderness," replied Aunt Affy, -"their own naughtiness kept them there." - -"H'm," sniffed the voice across the hall. "I think some people who -behave pretty well are kept in the Wilderness." - -"I like wild places," said Judith, forgetting her ball again. - -"And naughtiness, too," snapped Aunt Rody. - -"Oh, we all like that," laughed Marion; "Aunt Rody, I am coming in -there to tell _you_ a story." - -"Don't want you," grumbled Aunt Rody, in a relenting voice. - -But Marion went. - -"I'm sure you have a story to tell me," Judith heard Marion say, in -the tone Roger Kenney called "wheedling." - -"My story is all hard work, privation, and ingratitude," was the -ready response. - -As Aunt Affy sewed a tear fell on her coarse work, which Judith tried -not to see. - -Judith sewed diligently, wondering the while how she could make a -turning-point for herself. - -"Yes," groaned the voice across the hall, "my past is not pleasant to -dwell on, the present is full of contradictions and being opposed, -and the future--well, I _hope_ I am a Christian." - -"I don't believe you are," whispered Judith softly over her rags. - -A heavy step on the sod under the bedroom window brought sudden color -to Aunt Affy's old cheeks; with her sister's groanings in her ears -she was meditating if it were her duty to ask Cephas to go away -again. Was the Lord asking her to choose between the two? - -Pushing back his straw hat and leaning his shirt-sleeved arms on the -window-sill, the old man stood, with his lover's eyes on the -delicate, sweet face of the woman he had loved thirty years. - -"Well, Affy, how's things?" he asked, joyously. - -"Just as usual," she half sighed. - -"No worse, then?" - -"Not a bit," she answered, smiling. - -"Then I'll get a bite and go back to work again. It does me good to -come and have a look at you and know you are here." - -"Oh, I shall always be here." - -"And so shall I," he answered, confidently. - -After that, how could Aunt Affy but decide once again, and for ever, -that he _should_ always be here. - - - - -XVIII. JUDITH'S TURNING-POINT. - - - "No act falls fruitless; none can tell - How vast its power may be, - Nor what results infolded dwell - Within it silently." - -Judith stood in her night-dress and bare feet on the rug of -rag-carpet before her bed; she was afraid; she was afraid because of -Miss Marion's story; would she go to sleep, and wake up, and wish she -had a key in her door? - -After another hesitating moment she decided to go down stairs to Aunt -Affy's bed-room and linger around, hoping Aunt Affy would ask her to -sleep just one night in that cunning room in that old-fashioned, -tall-posted bed, with ever so many small pillows, and that red and -green quilt of patch-work baskets with handles. - -Slipping on the blue wool shoes her mother knitted, she went softly -down stairs to the entry bedroom. Aunt Rody's door, for a wonder, was -shut; that was one danger past, for if Aunt Rody heard one foot-fall, -without inquiring into it she would certainly send her back to bed. -If she were dying of a broken heart Aunt Rody would never know or -care. But she did not think it was because she would never care to -tell Aunt Rody about her broken heart. - -Aunt Affy's door, like the gates of Heaven, was wide open; by the -light of a small lamp she was reading her "chapters" in the Bible. - -One of Judith's names for Aunt Affy's Bible was "My Chapters." - -"Come in, dear," welcomed the angel within the gates of Heaven. On -the threshold stood the white-robed figure, with her long hair -braided loosely and ending in one curl. - -"Just a minute," pleaded the rather tearful voice; "shall I disturb -your chapters?" - -"No, indeed, you are a part of them, as your mother was before you," -said Aunt Affy, shoving her gold-rimmed spectacles into their case. - -These gold-rimmed spectacles were her last birthday present from -Cephas. - -Judith thought it was funny, but very lovely for such old people to -have birthday presents. Aunt Affy was so choice of these spectacles -that she kept them to read the Bible with. - -"I wanted to come a little while," said Judith, perching herself on -the side of the high bed, her blue-slippered feet not touching the -carpet. - -"I wish you had a sister," began Aunt Affy in the tone that ran on a -long while. "You must have some one to grow up with. You have never -had any one to grow up with." - -"I have Nettie, and Jean, and Miss Marion, and Mr. Roger, and -everybody else, and you and my cousin Don." - -"And we are all growing up together," laughed Aunt Affy with her soft -laugh. "When I was a little girl I had my sister Becky. The other -sisters were all grown up. Eight sisters we were. But some were -married. Father would have us all home on Christmas Days. Such a -merry houseful. Cephas was like the brother we never had. He came a -boy to work for father, just as Joe works for him. Becky and Cephas -and I were always growing up together. Becky was the friskiest thing, -always getting into scrapes and out of them. Rody used to be hard on -us, we thought then; but I've no doubt we were wilful and -disobedient, and gave her heaps of trouble. She always worked hard; -she always would." - -"Why?" asked Judith, with thoughtful questioning. - -"Because it is her nature to put her shoulder to the wheel. She -pushes other peoples' shoulders away. She does not know how to be -helped--not even by the Lord himself. She married off her sisters, she -said, and then all she wanted was to settle down to work and to peace -and quietness. She likes to see people at church; but it frets her -wonderfully to have people come here. If it hadn't been for that I -should have brought your dear mother back here years ago to stay, but -Rody _wouldn't_ hear of it. She can't bear to have her ways -interfered with. She wouldn't sleep one wink to-night if she thought -that pile of papers on the round table wasn't just as she put it. And -it would give her a fever for me to sleep in her bed." - -"But it wouldn't _you_," interrupted Judith, eagerly. - -"Oh, not a bit. Still I never try it. I like my own bed, and own side -of the bed. But I was telling you about Becky; she used to sleep with -me, and no one has since." - -Judith's heart sank. The room up stairs grew desolate and afraid and -homesick. - -"Cephas always liked Becky; they used to do their lessons together, -and when he went to town to learn his trade he asked her to be his -wife as soon as he could build a house to put her in. Father gave -Becky twenty acres on her twentieth birthday, and Cephas was to build -the house." - -"He wasn't bald and white-whiskered then." - -"Well, I think not. He was the handsomest young man in the country, -and the _best_. And a master workman, too. - -"Then father died; he had been queer some time. Rody broke off a -match for him; the old minister's sister, a widow, a good and lovely -woman, and he had mourned years for mother, and Becky and I were glad -to have him comforted; but Rody would not give up her place to any -stepmother, trust her for _that_; and she broke it off somehow, and -the widow married a minister, and father grew queer and then died. - -"Rody had something to repent of, if she only thought of it; only she -never _does_ think. She worked on Becky's feelings about Cephas, but -Becky held on, and wouldn't give him up; so she and I together, when -Rody wasn't looking on, made her wedding things, such piles. I -enjoyed it as if it were to be my own house-keeping; I loved them -both so, and Rody worked hard and was dreadfully cross to us all; and -the cellar for the new house was dug, and Becky was as happy as a -queen. How she sang about the house. Cephas had a shop of his own in -town by this time, and journeymen and apprentices; he _was_ a rusher; -he expected to drive in every day. He wanted a house in town, but -Becky loved the old place and she was always delicate, and he -couldn't bear to cross her. And, then, it's a sad story for young -people, but you must know there's sadness in the world as well as -joy--she died suddenly with fever. I watched her night and day. And -Rody. She was a ministering angel. She died in Rody's arms. Rody had -been like a mother to her. Her things, 'our things' she used to say, -were all packed away. Cephas failed in business--I think he didn't -care much whether he failed or not, and came back to the farm. -Flowers and weeds began to grow in the cellar of Becky's house; it's -only a big green hole now. Cephas wanted me to use her things; he -said Becky would like it, and I knew she would. He comforted me and I -comforted him. Rody didn't like _that_, and sent him away. We comfort -each other now, and always will. Rody can't hinder everything. Why, -child, don't have such big eyes over my story. Becky has been happy -all these blessed years, and Cephas and I talk over old times and -look forward to new times; and, we _would_ like to build a house over -Becky's cellar if Rody didn't fume so. - -"This is her ring that I wear--this plain gold, the only ring I ever -had; she put it on my finger and asked me to be good to Cephas. He -wouldn't take it back. But isn't it your bed-time, Deary?" - -"I wish I might brush your hair," said Judith, slipping off the high -bed. - -But a door creaked, was flung wide open; a night-capped head appeared -in the opposite doorway. - -"_You_ up, Judith Grey Mackenzie. Go right up to bed this minute. -It's just like you, and it's more like Affy. No wonder I couldn't -sleep with voices in the house at this unearthly hour. There! It's -striking nine o'clock. Affy, _you_ go to bed." - -Aunt Affy laughed softly as the creaking door was closed again. - -"I am not grown up either, you see. Perhaps I shall grow up with you. -She wouldn't let me mix the bread to-night, and she never lets me -take the butter out of the churn. And when we go to town shopping she -always carries the money." - -Judith laughed a doleful little laugh, and went bravely up stairs to -her turning-point. - -It was moonlight, but she must light the candle for company; she -would keep it burning all night, or as long as it would burn, if she -dared. - -She would scratch the match where she liked; Aunt Rody had no right -to order her about so; she did not belong to Aunt Rody. She wished -Aunt Affy would let her go to live always at the Parsonage. - -Perhaps Cousin Don would if she wrote and told him all about Aunt -Rody. - -One night last week Aunt Rody had put her head in at the door and -found her scratching a match on the bureau along the crack on its -upper edge; she often did it; but Aunt Rody gave a scream and seized -her by the arm and said angrily; "Judith Grey Mackenzie, don't you do -that again; I'll whip you as sure as you live if I ever see you do it -again. You might set the house on fire. Suppose a spark should fall -into the upper drawer." - -But a spark never had. The upper drawer was shut tight; Aunt Rody had -no right to catch her by the arm like that. And _whip_ her! She -wouldn't dare. She would go to the parsonage and stay until Cousin -Don came after her. - -She was old enough to scratch a match where she liked. - -With a sudden indignant stroke she drew the match under the top edge -of the bureau: a snap and a flash. - -"There," she said aloud, triumphantly. - -She lighted the candle and dropped the burnt match in the tin pail -that served as slop jar. - -It was very quiet down stairs; Joe had gone to bed, Uncle Cephas had -not come home from the session meeting at the parsonage; she wished -he would come. - -Then, the tiniest curl of smoke caught her eye--out of the top drawer; -no, that was tight shut; the curl grew and grew; _it came from the -crack under the top edge of the bureau_. - -Paralyzed with terror she stood and looked. It _was_ smoke. And it -grew and grew. Should she run down and tell Aunt Affy? But Aunt Rody -would hear and come, too. Might she call Joe? But he might tell Aunt -Rody the next day; he looked cross at her at supper time because she -said she would not read aloud to him all the evening. If Uncle Cephas -would only come. But he always stayed late at session meeting--there -it was, slowly, so slowly curling up. - -It was real smoke, and there had to be fire to make smoke. The bureau -would burn first and then--after a long time she remembered that water -would put out fire; what a goose she was to stand there and see the -smoke grow. - -She poured water into the wash-bowl, soaked the wash-cloth, and ran -it carefully all along the crack. - -There, it was out. Nothing to be frightened about. But she would -never do it again. Aunt Rody did not know about that. - -Sitting down on the foot of the bed opposite the bureau, she leaned -over the red rail that formed the foot-board and watched and waited. -Of course the fire was out. Yes--no--yes, there it was again--the curl -of smoke; the water had done no good; the fire was too deep in for -water to get through the crack; the spark had fallen away down _in_. - -In despair she burst into tears; but the tears kept her eyes from -watching the smoke; she brushed her eyes clear and looked; it was -there, and it grew and grew, not dense, not black, but real smoke, -and it kept coming and coming. - -"O Father in Heaven," she cried aloud, "_please stop it; please stop -it_. I don't know what to do." - -Still the smoke was there. Did God see it? Didn't he care? Would he -not answer because she had been so disobedient and because she had -hated Aunt Rody? - -"I will be good after this," she sobbed. "I don't want to be hateful. -I will give up my will to Aunt Rody _when she is right_." It _was_ -fainter; no, there it was again. Would the fire never go out? - -Aunt Rody knew best. Perhaps Aunt Rody knew best about other things. -Perhaps she _was_ a Christian, a real disciple, only a very queer one. - -Now it was so faint, so faint she could not see it at all. It was not -because the tears were in her eyes; it was gone. It _was_ gone. She -felt all along the crack with her finger. It was not hot. And the -smoke _was_ gone. The fire was out; it was all burned out inside that -crack. - -And Aunt Rody need never know. And she would never, never, never -disobey Aunt Rody again. Her mother had always told her she loved her -own will too much; she would never love it so much again; she would -say--what would she say? She knelt on the strip of rag-carpet where -she had seen the girl kneel in her "picture" and repeated softly, -through fast falling tears: "Our Father, who art in Heaven; Hallowed -be thy name; Thy Kingdom come: _Thy will be done_; that was it; _Thy -will be done_, Thy will be done," she repeated joyfully over and -over. "Make me love Thy will best. Make my will a good will, a sweet -will, _an obedient will_." - -She did not know then that it was her turning point. The next day she -_loved_ to obey Aunt Rody. Aunt Rody did not ask her to do one -disagreeable thing; and it was the queerest thing, Aunt Rody said, -when she asked if she might sweep the sitting-room, "That's a good -girl." - -She did not tell any one about her fright over the match excepting -John Kenney, Miss Marion's brother, and Jean Draper. He had come to -the parsonage for vacation. He was a big, handsome boy, as manly as -the minister himself, and as gentle as a girl; one afternoon, when -she and Jean Draper went off on a long stroll with him, and they -began to tell stories of adventure of what they had read, or of what -happened to them, she told her story about how the smoke got in a -crack. - -She only said she liked Aunt Rody better after that. She could not -tell about her prayer. But John would have understood, she was sure. - -He always looked as though he understood everything you meant, but -did not know how to say. - - - - -XIX. A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE. - - - "Routine of duties, - Commonplace cares." - - --F. L. Hosmer. - -The years went on in quiet Bensalem and brought Judith to her -eighteenth birthday; the summers and winters came and went, and the -girl grew. The parsonage was "home," and the farmhouse was "Aunt -Affy's," as it had been ever since she could remember. One July -morning, in this nineteenth year of Judith's story, something besides -the new morning was given to Marion. The parsonage under the -housekeeping of the two, the woman and the girl, was a dainty, -restful, and inspiring home to its three home-keepers, the minister, -his sister, and Judith Mackenzie. - -The relationship among the three was as simple and natural as though -Judith had been born one of the sisters in that old house, with the -three windows in the roof that she had made a picture of for her -mother. - -This July morning, an hour before dinner-time, Marion sat near the -kitchen table shelling peas; she had sent Judith back to the story -she was writing, and refused Roger's help when he put his head in at -the window to say that shelling peas always meant two people and a -bit of confidence. - -"Miss Marion," called a voice from the kitchen-porch; "I am not fit -to come in, I'm just out of the hay field. I've got a letter for you -that's been laid over, and a burning shame it is; and it is the -second time it has happened. To excuse himself he said your box was -full and this slipped out or was set aside. I gave the Bensalem -postmaster a round scolding, and told him the parsonage mail was -always important, and if it happened again I'd go straight to -Washington and report him to Uncle Sam," chuckled the old man to whom -a letter was about the smallest thing in life. - -"Uncle Cephas," welcomed Marion, cordially, "thank you for the -scolding and the letter." - -"I mustn't come in; I brought the minister a load of hay. Don't call -him, I'll find him. Your letter looks rather foreign." - -"Yes," she said, trembling almost visibly after a glance at the post -mark. - -"Double postage too," he said curiously. - -"Yes," she said again. - -"Judith had a foreign letter last night, too." - -"Oh, yes, I see all her foreign letters," she replied with an effort. - -"I must go; don't work too hard. So you like to be your own mistress -and your own maid; no help at all this summer?" - -"No; and once Judith and I did the washing; it was the best fun we -ever had." - -"Our folks say you think you own Judith; but I guess you have as good -a right to her as anybody. You and her Cousin Don; you do the most -for her." - -He nodded, wiped his forehead with his soiled handkerchief, pushed -down his tattered straw hat and went down the steps with a careful -tread. Uncle Cephas was an old man--his age had come upon him -suddenly. Marion watched him as he walked away; it was easier to look -at the load of hay, the hayfield beyond the parsonage garden, easier -to look at anything, and think of anything excepting that foreign -letter. Why should Don write to her? He had not written for five long -years, not once since that letter about Judith from Genoa. Was it -because she had--refused him? - -During all these years it never once entered her thoughts that she -had refused him. - -He did ask her to become his wife--if _that_ were asking. And she had -refused, if that were refusing. - -"Can you have dinner in half an hour?" Roger asked, coming to the -open window near the sink. "I only this minute remembered that I -promised King to drive over this afternoon to talk his parish -difficulties over with him. His housekeeper has gone, did I tell you? -He's keeping house by himself--has been trying it a month, or I'd take -you and Judith for the drive; he would not relish your seeing his -house-keeping. Don't hurry too much; give me a cold dinner with a cup -of coffee." - -"I'll ring the bell in half an hour; Judith will help me," she -replied, hearing the sound of her own voice with every word she spoke. - -The words she was speaking did not touch her own life--nothing was in -her life but that letter in her hand; she had as much of it as she -could bear just now, she thought she would hide it away and never -open it. It was another thing to die and be buried. - -Judith came and began to set the dinner table and to tell her the -last pretty thing Nettie Evans said--Marion moved absently about the -kitchen; the letter was pushed down in her dress pocket. - -When at last she could bear the suspense no longer, she asked Judith -to boil the eggs, and to bring the rice pudding from the cellar, and -went up stairs to her own chamber and shut the door. If she did not -have to bear this--if only it had not come to disturb her peace--she -was satisfied without it. It was a long letter; it was full of -something, her heart was beating so fast and choking her that she -read sentence after sentence without gathering any thought or -incident; it was words, words, words. - -"I expect to sail for home next month; I am tired of being a stranger -and a foreigner. You have never written to me beyond those two words; -but I know what you have been to my Cousin Judith. I think I have -grown old since you saw me; life has grown old if I have not. I know -from the letters of Roger and Judith that you are just the same. -Unless you are just the same I would not care to see you again. Your -old friend, Don." - -She opened a drawer and laid the letter away; she would understand -the rest of it when she was not in such a tumult. Did Roger know he -was coming home? Judith had not told her. Had he told no one but -herself? Did he expect her to tell the others? She had to take her -eyes and burning cheeks down stairs, but she did not have to speak of -her letter yet. And, after all, there was nothing in it to speak of. -It was a letter not worth the writing. - -The girl in the blue gingham, with the yellow waves of hair dropping -to her waist in one long braid, was giving the last touches to the -dinner table set for three; the roses in the centre of the table were -from Aunt Affy's garden. - -"They are talking still--Uncle Cephas and Roger. They will never get -through; they begin in the middle every time. I have been so -interested that I forgot to boil the eggs. There are chops down -cellar; shall I broil them? I always think of Don when I broil chops. -I broiled chops for him that last time I saw him. Do you know I -believe he is coming home soon? He thinks he will surprise me; but I -have guessed it all summer." - -"Yes; get the chops," replied Marion. - -"And you listen there at the window," laughed Judith; "Uncle Cephas -is touching on marriage now. He told Roger he did a wrong thing when -he married Jean Draper to a man who is not a Christian; she is only -nineteen and does not know better, he said. Roger has been trying to -argue himself right; but I don't know how Roger could help that, do -you?" - -"No; Roger couldn't help it; David Prince comes to church regularly -and Roger admires him; Jean's father and mother were willing; I think -Uncle Cephas takes too much upon himself. Roger believes David Prince -is a Christian and doesn't know it. Roger knows it; and Jean does. -But Roger never minds Uncle Cephas." - -Uncle Cephas was speaking with low intensity; standing at the window -Marion listened: at first indignant, then she became interested. -Roger would miss his appointment; perhaps he was so amused with the -old man that he had forgotten his drive to Meadow Centre. - -"You see, dominie, in marriage there's a heap to look at besides -young folks choosing each other, even more than parents being -willing; parents may be mistaken--there's the command that comes -straight and strong. I am as interested in the marriage question as I -am in all the other things that concerns the life of the church and -the community; I've had years enough to study it theoretically," he -went on, with his deep laugh. - -"Which command are you bringing down upon my head now?" inquired the -minister, in a tone of good fellowship. - -"Is it the dominie that asks which? You who should have all the -commands, and promises, and threatenings at your tongue's end--" - -"My tongue would have no end then," replied Roger. - -"And the geography and history of the scriptures, too. I didn't use -to believe in studying the geography of the Bible until that man came -from Antioch, and now I know Damascus and the land of the Chaldees, -and Tyre and Sidon all by heart. Of course you know better than I do -that command Joshua gave the people, and I verily believe it was more -for the women than the men, as I told Affy in talking over Jean -Draper's case; women are naturally religious creatures, bless 'em." - -Judith and the chops were over the fire; Marion stood at the open -window; Judith listened, and burnt her chops. - -"Why, you remember," Uncle Cephas ran on in the familiar voice with -which he talked about his cattle and his crops, "that he told the -people the nations should be snares and traps, and scourges in your -sides and thorns in your eyes until they perished from off the good -land, and the reason was, or would be, that they made marriages with -them." - -"Yes, certainly," interjected Roger impatiently. - -"But that isn't all; don't say 'certainly' in such a matter of fact -way; it was something else; it was making marriages 'with the -remnant,' those that _remain among you_, not the round-about nations, -but the among-you nations, and there's where the danger is, I tell -the young folks; young folks never know their dangers; it is the -believers that don't believe the folks that come to church and don't -confess Christ, that is the hindrance, and the ones that bring -punishment of scourges and snares and traps and thorns; it is like -the half of a truth that is the worst of a lie. David Prince comes -regularly and listens to the truth, and if I do say it to your face, -you put it powerful; and he goes away and by his actions confesses -that he doesn't believe a word you say. I labored with Jean Draper, -but she only cried, like the dear girl she is, and said she couldn't -give him up; not if the whole session said so." - -"She came to me," answered Roger, in his quietest tones, "and I told -her to hold on to him and I would marry them if the session tore me -to pieces." - -"I believe you would," laughed Uncle Cephas. "Well, I've washed my -hands. I didn't expect to hinder anything. I suppose I can trust my -minister if he hasn't come to his gray hairs. I thought that hay was -the first fruits and I'd bring it. You see Bensalem is as dear to me -as the land of Israel to old Joshua and Samuel. The Lord's eyes are -always upon it, and it flows with milk and other good things. No -offence, I hope," he added in his sweet, old, slow voice. - -Roger hurried into the house, and hustled Judith and her chops to the -dinner table. - -"I believe I'll take you this afternoon, Judith; it's time you began -your vacation; all the other boarding-schools closed long ago. You -will see the desolation of the Meadow Centre parsonage and offer your -services on the spot. King can't get a housekeeper to suit him since -Mrs. Foster left. You will suit him exactly; perhaps he likes burnt -chops." - -After the little bustle subsided, Marion asked: "Roger, why didn't -you tell him about Ruth of Moab--Judith and I are just reading _Ruth_, -who married one of the chosen people, and, if Samuel wrote the story, -he made the sweetest love-story that ever was written--and she was one -in the direct line of the ancestry of Christ." - -"Because that would have been in confirmation of his point," said -Roger, breaking an egg carefully. - -"I don't see how," replied Marion. - -Judith listened; Roger never talked for the sake of argument; he -pondered before he spoke again. - -"She deliberately chose the God of Israel to be her God, giving -herself to His worship and His people; Naomi had taught her; Naomi -was a missionary--love of her mother-in-law was not all that decided -her to leave her gods and her native land." - -"I thought it was because she loved Naomi," said Judith, "and that -was so lovely." - -"But Naomi's son married her first," argued Marion; "he had no right -to do that." - -"Perhaps he was punished for it; perhaps both sons were punished for -it; who knows?" - -"But you do not think Jean has done wrong," said Judith, -sympathetically; "it will break her heart if she ever reasons herself -into believing she has disobeyed." - -"Well, no," replied Roger, dryly; "especially as David expects to -confess his faith at the next communion. He would not do it before -for fear that he would do it to please Jean. He did not dare tell -her. He has told no one but myself." - -"Then, Roger, why didn't you tell Uncle Cephas?" asked Judith, in -astonishment. - -"I thought he might as well learn that, even in Bensalem, there are -some people he may misjudge. He knows Bensalem by head, once in a -while, better than he knows it by heart." - -"Did you say you would take Judith to Meadow Centre," Marion asked, -bringing herself back from over the sea. - -"Did I, Judith?" - -"No, you said you believed you would take me," said Judith, -mischievously. - -"I believe it still." - -"Would you like to go?" inquired Marion. - -"I would not like to interfere with any of Roger's beliefs." - -"Then be ready in ten minutes, or you will. I fed Daisy and she has -had to eat in a hurry like her master." - -"But, Marion, I shall leave you with the dishes, and supper--" - -"She couldn't be left in better company," Roger insisted; "don't stop -to change your dress; put on your big hat and we'll be off." - -"Marion, do you want to be left alone?" - -"More than anything else in the world," said Marion, sincerely. - - - - -XX. JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. - - - "Green pastures are before me, - Which yet I have not seen." - -"I suppose King will ask me to exchange with him Sunday," remarked -Roger, putting the reins into Judith's ready hands, after turning out -of the parsonage lane. "Which sermon shall I take?" - -"The cubit one," was her unhesitating reply; "it has been in my mind -to ask you to preach that again for me." - -"But you will not hear it." - -"Unless you take me with you," she suggested with a merry laugh. - -Roger believed that Judith Grey Mackenzie was the merriest maiden in -Bensalem. - -"I would if I were going to dine at the parsonage, but there's no -housekeeper there, more's the pity, I shall take dinner and supper -with one of the deacons, and drive home in the moonlight. You would -like that." - -"All but the deacon." - -"And you wouldn't endure the deacon for the sake of the cubit sermon." - -"Indeed, I wouldn't. What would they think of me?" - -"That you are a very nice little girl." - -"I'm too big a girl, that's the worst of it." - -"That's the best of it--for me." - -"I don't know whether I'm glad of it or not," she said, as frankly as -if speaking to Marion. "The only trouble I have in the world is that -I'm growing up away from being your little girl." - -[Illustration: "The only trouble I have," said Judith, "is that I'm -growing up away from being your little girl."] - -"Don't you dare," he said with playful threatening. - -"I don't dare." - -"As if you could, Lady-Bug." - -"Oh, how that brings back dear old Don. It is the last name he ever -called me--outside of a letter. Don't you believe that he's coming -home soon?" - -"I know it." - -"Do you know how soon?" - -"That is his secret." - -"Oh," drawing a long breath, "I'm too glad. But I don't want to go to -the city and keep house for him, and go to college and have every -advantage, as he says I must do. I've _had_ every advantage; you and -Marion have been my 'liberal education.' Nothing will ever take me -away from Marion." - -"Or your brother Roger." - -"Oh, you two are one. I always mean you both." - -"But hasn't your Cousin Don the best right to you? Isn't he your -guardian or something?" - -"He is my everything--beside you and Marion and Aunt Affy." - -"Then he must do as he thinks best." - -"Am I not to be consulted? I belong to myself first of all." - -"You will be much consulted, no doubt." - -"Then I hope I shall not have to do anything I don't want to. I'm -afraid Don will be like a stranger. I was only a little girl when he -went away. I do not feel at home with _him_, only with the thought of -him." - -"With your thought of him?" - -"And my thought may be very far wrong. O, Roger, do you believe it -is?" bringing her earnest face within range of his too sympathetic -eyes. - -"Tell me what is your thought of him," he said, gently, taking the -reins from her hands. "You see you cannot talk and drive, too. Daisy -was walking into a fence." - -She gave up the reins without any consciousness of the action; she -was looking at her Cousin Don's face as she had told a "picture" of -it to her mother. - -"He is so fine, so unselfish, so true, so considerate, a refuge from -everything that troubles me, a part of my mother to me--I have saved -all his letters, they are my chief treasures. If I should be -disappointed in him the sun would drop out of the sky." - -"Poor little girl," thought the man beside her, tenderly. "Suppose -you are disappointed in me," he asked, lightly; "have you ever -thought about that?" - -"No. I cannot even _think_ that," she said, impulsively. - -"Because you have not placed me on any such pedestal?" - -"Perhaps so," she laughed. - -"_Is_ that the reason?" - -"No, for when I was a little girl I placed my Cousin Don and his -friend Roger on the same pedestal. You haven't tumbled off yet, and -I've been with you ever since." - -"Judith, I do not like that," he answered, seriously; "you shouldn't -look at people like that." - -"I don't. At people. But I do at you, and Don, and Marion, and Aunt -Affy and Ruskin and George Macdonald and Miss Mulock and Tennyson -and--" - -"Then I will not be frightened if we are all there. If one of us -fail, you will have all the others to keep the sun in your sky." - -"Now, give me back the reins, because I have told you." - -He laid the reins in her hand, asking what she had been doing with -herself all the morning. - -"Writing a story." - -"O, Judith, not another one," he exclaimed in pretended dismay. - -"I had to. It was burning in my bones. Don't you know I got five -dollars for the last one?" - -"Can nothing but a five-dollar bill quench the burning in your bones?" - -"Oh, yes; the burning is quenched by writing it. I am quenched now for -quite a while." - -"What was your inspiration this time?" - -"Something you said Sunday evening." - -"Tell me." - -"I will read it to you in your earliest leisure." - -"Do you intend to keep this thing up and be a dreadful literary -creature?" - -"Only as long as the burning lasts." - -"But while you muse the fire burns; you must give up musing." - -"Are you serious?" she asked, troubled. - -"No, dear. Give everything that is _in_ you. That is what it is in -you for." - -"I know that," she answered, confidently. "In almost all your sermons -I find a thought to make a story of." - -"You illustrate me. I am the author; you are the artist." - -"Then how can I go away and keep house for Don?" - -"You mercenary creature, you want to make money out of me." - -"When I was a little girl and thought of writing stories I wanted to -earn money; now I only think of the joy of writing things down." - -"That is creating--like the joy of the Lord. May it last forever--like -his joy." - -Judith was silent from sheer happiness. Her work was so little, but -so dear: Roger and Marion always understood; she was no more shy with -them about her stories than about her thoughts; she gave herself to -them utterly, as she had given herself to her mother. - -The parsonage at Meadow Centre was in Meadow Centre; it was not in a -village, or a _ville_; it was not in any place, but its own place, -where it stood; the church was the nearest building, the post-office -was two miles distant; there were farm-houses scattered about for -miles; the most distant parishioner lived three miles from the church. - -The parsonage, built of wood and stone, a story and a half, with the -trumpet vine climbing luxuriously to its low roof, had passed its -birthday of three-score years and ten. It was old, and it looked as -if it felt old. - -The gate was swung wide open, the path leading to the closed front -door was weed-grown, the flower beds on each side of the path were a -mass of wild, bright bloom. - -"How pretty! How like a picture!" exclaimed Judith, in admiration; -"there's a grape-vine running up an apple tree, and there's the old -oaken bucket. What a pity for no one to live here." - -"Somebody stays here," said Roger. - -"Is it the parsonage? How can they neglect it so?" - -"Whoa, Daisy. The farmers are all busy. King should learn to use a -scythe, and a lawn-mower; he's a born hermit. If he wanted to he -could find a housekeeper; he forgets he hasn't any." - -"But there's no one at home." - -"Oh, yes, he's at home. He's expecting me. The study is in the rear; -he lives in that." - -"But where is his sunshine?" - -"He finds that. He's the best man to find sunshine I know. He is the -sunshine himself." - -The "sunshine" came around the corner of the house, a long linen -duster crowned with a soft gray felt hat; beneath the hat a tawny -beard, and the bluest eyes shining through a tangle of eyebrows. - -"I had given you up." - -"Never give me up," said Roger in a sunshiny voice. "I'm always on -hand, when I am not on foot. Miss Mackenzie, Mr. King. But, excuse -me, you have seen each other in Bensalem." - -"I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Mackenzie; I hope she has -not forgotten me." - -"Judith never forgets. Will you let her go around and browse while we -have our drive? Judith, you don't mind staying alone?" - -"It is not a very nice place for a lady to stay in," the bachelor -housekeeper hastened to say; "I fear I forget when sweeping-day -comes, and I always forget to wash the dishes." - -"Judith will do that for you. Don't forget, Judith," he warned. - -"The woman who comes once a week is ill, and has not been here for -two weeks; I am really ashamed to have Miss Judith come into the -house." - -"She isn't ashamed, she likes it. Give her your hand, Dick, and help -her out; I must hold Daisy." - -Judith stepped down and stood beside the linen duster and gray hat, -fervently wishing she had stayed at home. - -"Roger, how long will you be gone?" she inquired, faint-heartedly. - -"Till supper-time--we have business on hand--if you don't have supper -ready for us I'll lose you on the way home." - -"There's bread in the house, and butter and milk and eggs--but the -dishes--," excused the embarrassed housekeeper. - -"Trust a girl to wash dishes. Will you wear that duster?" - -"I have a coat under it. Wait until I show Miss Judith in; my study -is the only fit place." - -"Show her the kitchen, there's where you need a visitor." - -"The front door is locked," apologized Mr. King. "I am sorry to take -you to the back hall door." - -Judith's courtesy and kindliness failed her; Roger deserved a -scolding for bringing her to such a forlorn place; what could she do -with herself two or three hours? - -The doorway into which she was shown led into a narrow carpeted hall; -the study door stood open; books in book-cases, on the floor, on a -table, books and dust, a coat on a chair; the light from two windows -streamed in. - -"If you care for books you will find something to do--the latest -magazines are somewhere. My housekeeper had to leave suddenly, and to -get another has been impossible. I wish I might make you comfortable. -I'd like to put Kenney under the pump for bringing you. Would you -rather I would take you to a neighbor?" he asked, brightening. - -"Oh, no; I like it--I shall like it,--here, in a few minutes," she said -with fervent kindliness. - -"Don't get us any supper; Mr. Kenney was only joking," he added as he -disappeared. - -It was rather a cruel kind of a joke, she thought, as Daisy sped down -the road; she would run away and walk home, seven miles, if she -dared. But Roger would be hurt; he had brought her for the drive, and -had no idea of the dismalness of the desolate old place. - -She threw off hat and gloves, and braced herself for action of some -kind. Roger would expect supper. It was not difficult to find the -kitchen; there was no fire, a fire could hardly be expected; there -appeared to be nothing in the room but piles and piles of dirty -dishes. There were kindlings in a basket near the stove, and wood in -the box behind the stove; there was a sink and a pump; with fire and -water she could wash dishes. - -If Marion had only come, too, what fun it would have been. It would -be rather desolate fun all alone. - -She discovered soap in a dish on the sink, and towels, clean towels, -hanging on a heavy cord behind the stove. The room, like the study, -was flooded with the afternoon sunshine. And there were pictures out -of the window; she had never yet found a window that did not frame a -picture. She could not be lonely with pictures and sunshine. - -In five minutes the wood fire was crackling; the sunshine and the -fire were two companions she loved, and then, Marion often laughed at -her enthusiasm for washing dishes. For once in her life, she would -tell Marion, she had dishes enough to wash. - -If she might only heat the oven and make biscuits. That would be a -surprise. With a feeling that she was intruding she opened a closet -door; a loaf of bread, a plate of butter, a paper of soda crackers, a -small basket of eggs, a tin quart of milk, a bag of salt was the -quick inventory she made--then she found a bag of flour on the floor, -a basket of potatoes, a ham from which slices had been cut, and a jug -of molasses. Hot biscuits, ham and eggs, coffee, there must be -coffee; what a splendid supper she might have. There were no remains -of a dinner; perhaps he had forgotten to get any dinner, or he might -have been invited out; he should have one supper--if there were only -time. - -Roger told her once that she had the feet and fingers of a fairy; she -said to herself that she needed them that afternoon. - -At that very moment when feet and fingers were busy in his kitchen, -how her young enthusiasm would have been kindled could she have heard -the story he was telling Roger. - -"It has been a tug for me, something to go through with. You do not -know unless you have had something of the sort happen to you. It may -end in my going away. She is everything to be desired, and more than -I deserve. A splendid looking girl, a college graduate, just the wife -for a minister, keen as a flash, quick at repartee, as spicy as a -magazine article, born to command, a perfect lady, with a winning -manner, and I can't love her if it kills me. I've been down on my -knees begging the Lord to make me love her: and she is no more to me -than a picture, or a statue, or a character in a book. It unmans me -to feel how her heart has gone out to me. She is as brave about it as -she can be." - -"How, in the name of wonder, do you know it then?" asked Roger, in -astonishment. - -"I know it because I cannot help knowing it. If you do not know how I -know it I cannot tell you. Her mother knows it, and how she watches -me. They say Frederick Robertson married in a like way; he was afraid -he had been dishonorable. But this is none of my doing." - -"I can believe that, old fellow." - -"What am I to do?" - -"Steer clear of her." - -"All my steering will not keep me clear of her. We are constantly -brought together." - -"Introduce me. You will be nowhere." - -Richard King would not laugh; the very telling his trouble appeared -treason in his eyes. - -"I know what is the matter," ejaculated Roger, suddenly. "You have -seen some other woman, or you would succumb." - -"I have seen several other women," he said, thinking only of one,--the -girl with a blind mother in Bensalem. - -"Don't let it drive you away from your work." - -"I think she may go away. I think her mother will send her away. I -think I would rather face the cannon's mouth than be left alone half -an hour with that old lady." - -"Does she blame you?" - -"Not if she has the common sense I think she has. I am the last man -for a girl to fall in love with," he added, ruefully. - -"Don't count too much on that," advised Roger, gravely. - -At six o'clock Daisy was driven around to the stable to be fed; -Judith was taking her molasses cake from the oven and heeded neither -voices nor footsteps. - -"I told you so," cried Roger, delighted, coming to the kitchen -doorway. "See here, King, and look here, and _smell_ here." - -"Well, I think so," exclaimed the bachelor housekeeper in dismay and -delight. - -"Table set, too," declared Roger, stepping into the tiny dining-room. -"No table-cloth; how is that, Judith?" - -"I couldn't look around for things," said Judith, flushing; "I was -afraid every minute of intruding. I haven't looked into places any -more than I could help." - -"Miss Judith, I am ashamed--" - -"You are grateful, you lucky dog," interrupted Roger. "We are as -hungry as tramps, Judith; our host stopped at the store and bought -sugar cakes and cheese to treat us on, not knowing the feast he was -bringing his guest home to." - -Biscuits, molasses cake, ham and eggs and coffee. - -Judith's eyes were demure and satisfied; she had never had such a -good time in her life. - -"I can get you a table-cloth if it will not be too much trouble to -reset the table," proposed the host as unembarrassed as his visitors -could desire. - -"Please don't," said Judith, "unless for your own convenience." - -"I acknowledge I haven't seen a table-cloth on my own table since I -have been my own housekeeper: but we must have napkins. I cannot do -without napkins unless I am camping out." - -Judith was placed at the head of the table, she accepted the position -as naturally as she did at the Bensalem parsonage when she was left -to be the lady of the house; she poured the delicious coffee, ate her -biscuits with a perfect relish, and listened to story, repartee, -experiences, plans for work with an appreciation that added zest to -the conversation. - -"Well, Judith, what do you think of your afternoon?" inquired Roger, -when Daisy was trotting the second mile toward home. - -"I never had anything like it. I didn't mind washing the supper -dishes with you looking on; but I _did_ mind having him in the -kitchen." - -"He couldn't stay out; it was nuts for him. He's a first-rate camper, -but housekeeping is one too many for him. He is one too many for -himself. He wishes to be near the church, so he will not try to find -board anywhere." - -"Hasn't he a sister, or cousin, or somebody?" - -"He hasn't anybody. He wants to bring a family to the parsonage--he -might have had one for the summer if he had known he would lose his -housekeeper in time. He will make a break and do something. What do -you think of him?" - -"If I hadn't seen that dreadful study, and that kitchen--" - -"Did you go up stairs?" - -"Why, _no_. Did you think I would do that? I felt myself an intruder -every minute. You didn't think I _would_ do that, Roger." - -"Well, no; now I come to think of it." - -"If I had met him away--but he is so much a part of that kitchen and -study, that I'm afraid I shall not be fair to him. At first he was -nothing but big, to me; big and ashamed; then nothing but red beard -and eyebrows, and then eyes; his voice is as big as he is. I liked -his sermon that other time you exchanged; he is a man in earnest." - -"A man burning with enthusiasm! He came to Meadow Centre--his parish -covers three miles in two directions,--only because he was needed -there. He refused twice the salary, a pitiful little salary it is, -that he might try to bring that church back,--to keep it from being -swallowed up; his father was born there--he has a love for the church -and people; we passed a deserted church on the way here, a mile ahead -of us; Meadow Centre will be another deserted church before many -years--there are deserted farms in this neighborhood." - -"But the people will find a church somewhere." - -"There's a new church where we went this afternoon; it is taking his -people, his grandfather's people." - -"I should think it would. The church is out of repair--there's nothing -pretty about it. I don't believe he _can_ keep the people together." - -"Then he will help them scatter. He will do something for them. He -wanted this experience, and he could afford to take it." - -"Did you promise to exchange Sunday?" - -"Yes. I will drive home after evening service. He will stay over -night with us. I wish we might keep him a week. He took me to see a -place for a new church. He is a born organizer--" - -"Outside of the kitchen," laughed Judith. - -"I wish he had a wife," said Roger. - -"Not for such a reason--to keep house for him," replied Judith, in a -flash of indignation. - -"His grandfather and father were born in Scotland--on his mother's -side he has Scotch grit. He'll pull himself through, but it's rather -tough on him. He makes me feel like a pampered baby. He worked his -way through college; he has fed on thistles and he shows it. I wish I -had," said Roger devoutly. - -"Is it too late?" asked Judith teasingly. - -"I feel so small beside him," Roger went on discontentedly; "he is -the biggest and best fellow I know." - -"Roger, Roger, you tell me not to seek hard things for myself." - -Roger lapsed into silence. Judith wondered if she might not put her -afternoon into her next story. Sometime what a pretty book she would -make out of her short stories. She would call it: "A Child's -Outlook." But that would be too grown up for children. Her stories -were _for_ children, as well as about children. Marion had planned a -summer of writing for her; she had the "plots" for five stories in -her head; she had told them all to Marion as she used to tell her -mother pictures; they were, all of them, founded on her own childish -experiences; her childhood had been full of things--Marion said her -own childhood had not been so full. Every day when she was a child -had been a story. Telling her mother pictures had helped make her -stories. She used to tell her mother stories about herself. - -"You are too young to look back to your childhood," Roger had once -told her; "that comes with age." - -"Mother made it so real--she impressed me with its happenings. She -made things happen, I understand now, because she was going away so -soon. She used to say, 'I want you to look back and remember this.' -And I read aloud to her the journal she asked me to keep the last -three years--I draw upon that now." - -A summer of stories. She laughed aloud in her joy. She wished she -might take her book of stories to Heaven to show to her mother. - - - - -XXI. MARION'S AFTERNOON. - - - "Only the present is thy part and fee, - And happy thou, - If, though thou didst not beat thy future brow - Thou couldst well see - What present things required of thee." - - --George Herbert. - -More than anything else in the world Marion wished to be alone that -afternoon. If it were possible she wished to understand herself. She -closed the study blinds, and, in the dim light drew Roger's study -chair to the table; and, sitting down, bent forward, leaning her head -on the table. - -What did she wish to understand? She wished to know if the years had -burnt out that impulse of friendship, or love, she had, then, toward -Roger's friend, and her own friend; she was as light-hearted to-day, -but for the shame of it, as if she had never known him so pleasantly -and familiarly; her excitement over the letter was--what was it? - -If he should enter now she would be startled; she would be startled -because of that shame, because of those words that had spoken the -truth to him; she had read his letters to Judith week after week all -these years; they were delightful letters, he put himself into them; -Judith had written him that she always showed them to her; she did -not often read the letters Judith wrote to him. - -If she knew that he were coming back to--but, why should he? He had -not cared beyond friendliness then; there was no reason that he -should care beyond friendliness to-day. She _was_ just the same; not -any prettier, not any more attractive; she was only a busy worker in -her brother's small parish. Girls always had lovers, she supposed; -before she had a thought of it David Prince asked her to marry him, -and she refused instantly with no thought but surprise; there had -been no one else; she was twenty-one when she thought she cared for -Don Mackenzie, she was twenty-six now; an impulsive girl then, a -self-possessed woman now; that had been a golden experience; if there -were any gold in her it had been tried in that fire. - -He was her girlish ideal; he was not her woman's ideal. Perhaps she -was disappointed in him. - -"Marion, Marion," called a voice in the hall; a voice Marion loved; -Aunt Affy's voice. - -"O, Aunt Affy," springing toward the figure in the gray dress and -pretty gray bonnet, "how _did_ you know I wanted you more than I ever -did in my life?" - -"I was sent, may be," was the simple reply. - -"I am sure you were," said Marion, drawing her into the study and -seating her on the lounge. "Now give me your bonnet." - -"But, I can't stay a minute," Aunt Affy protested; "Cephas had to -come to the blacksmith's, and he brought me. Rody hasn't been so well -all day, and I hate to leave her. I came to see the minister." - -"The minister's sister will have to do this time." - -"I'm afraid she won't. Rody has something on her mind; I thought -perhaps he would come to see her and find out. She looks queer at me -and will not speak. Mrs. Evans is staying with her. She hasn't worked -too hard this summer; she couldn't; I've done a good deal, and we've -had one of the Draper girls come in two days every week. I know it -isn't _that_; it's her mind. But I'll stay content till Cephas comes -for me. Now, what is, deary?" - -"It isn't anything; only I wanted to hear you talk." - -"Bless the child," ejaculated Aunt Affy; "I never talked in my life." - -"No, you never do; you only breathe out your spirit and your -experiences; they find words for themselves; I truly believe you have -nothing to do with the words; they _come_." - -Aunt Affy laughed; she thought so herself. - -"Did you ever want to do anything different from your life? Were you -always as satisfied as you are now?" asked Marion, taking Aunt Affy's -hard-working hand into her own pretty fingers. - -Then Aunt Affy laughed again. What a tumult her far-away girlhood had -been. Did girls now-a-days think so much and have such confusing -thoughts and times? - -"I had a longing to do a certain kind of work--very practical; and the -only relief was praying to be satisfied with the having and doing it. -That was a very holy state of mind, you think. I used to think so, -too. Would it have been a holy state of mind if I had run next door -to see my bosom friend and talked to her continually about it? My -praying was simply to unburden myself. I had no bosom friend to talk -to; if I had I might have told her about it instead of praying about -it. And being devout I talked to God about it, instead of falling -into reverie as one less devout would have done. I am not confident -all my praying was prayer," she answered, shaking her head with its -two long white curls. - -"Yes," said Marion, who had felt this dimly about her own praying. - -"But it held this inestimable blessing--it moved me to study about -prayer, as no other experience would have done. And then, as the -years went on, the comfort of what I found to believe was so -satisfying that I forgot, for the while, the certain thing I was -longing for. And then as it was not granted, I began to think the -longing had been kept alive and craving that I might be kept alive -and craving about prayer. God's way of answering is as well worth -studying as our way of asking." - -"I should think it might be worth more," said Marion. - -"I am glad to hear you say that. Some too introspective people regard -more their way of asking--and in that way wander about in the dark -while his way of answering is light about them." - -"But then," Marion said, argumentatively, "don't you see that unless -your prayer were granted what you were learning would not be true; -that is, if the promises are to be taken literally and exactly." - -"I do not always know about 'literally and exactly.' That depends -upon just where we are. A child's faith may need 'literally and -exactly.' You and I may be growing into--not a less confident, but a -more intelligent faith." - -"Let me read you something. Dr. Parkhurst says--" Marion opened the -volume and read:--"'The longings of the human spirit have their own -particular beatitude, and, better than any other interpreters, make -clear the meaning of the Holy Word.'" - -"Read it again," said Aunt Affy. "I've been all through that." - -Marion read it again, very clearly, then laid aside the book. - -"But how do you know if you do give up?" she asked, feeling her own -will strong within her. - -"There is a great deal in your question. To give up heartily and -thoroughly is a rare thing to do. It is more than giving up praying -about it. It is even more than giving up wishing for it. It is giving -up the place in your heart, the plan in your life that held it; it is -so giving up that you can put something else in its stead. It is -filling that place so full that the old desire can never get back -into it again. And it is doing it of your own free will. It is like -what the people might have done by taking God back again as King, and -refusing to have Saul. They had the opportunity to do it." - -"Aunt Affy, _how_ have you learned to be so sure about things? You -remind me of another thing Dr. Parkhurst says: 'A Christian has more -than the natural resources of thought and action.'" - -"So we have. I knew nothing but that God cared for me. And I was -eager, impetuous, impatient, wilful, eager for him to walk my way, in -the way I should tell him about. It was years and years before his -Word became to me the delight, the plain command, warning, rebuke, -comfort, it is to-day. But I studied night and day with my longing -heart; and he blessed every natural longing; he took not one away; he -took each into his keeping and blessed it." - -"Does it take years?" faltered Marion. "I want to learn something -to-day." - -"You may learn something to-day; you cannot learn all to-day. -Yesterday I opened my Bible to a passage dated thirty years ago; I -remember the night I marked it; I was staggered, dismayed at -something that had happened to me, something that I thought God would -never let happen. I read through tears; I was comforted although the -words meant little to me; I was comforted as a child is comforted, -snug in its mother's arms, when the mother does not speak one word. -Yesterday, being in a strait again, I read these same marked words; -again they were dull and dry; I asked God to tell me what he meant." - -"Thirty years ago did you ask him to tell you?" - -"No, I did not think of that. I thought I would be comforted some -other way. I had not grown up to the understanding of to-day. You -know there's a _natural_ growing up to understanding God's words. It -took the happenings of these thirty years to make me understand; God -worked through them. He makes us grow through the sunshine and rain -of his happenings. God has to wait for our slow growing. (And I wish -to impress upon you just here, that unless you read and remember and -understand the Bible stories you cannot expect to find the lessons -for your own life. Superficial reading will not bring out the points; -one of his ways of teaching is through the natural method of your own -study and memory.) - -"'Therefore they inquired of the Lord further.' That further helped -me through a hard time. The story is this: God had chosen a king for -his people, told Samuel all about it, and sent him to pour the -anointing oil upon his head and to kiss him; and now when Samuel -called the people together at Mizpeh, and caused all the tribes to -come near to choose a king for them, and the tribe of Benjamin was -taken, then the family in Benjamin, then Saul, the son of Kish, thus -confirming the Lord's choice and Samuel's mission in the anointing, -and then the most astounding thing happened. Saul, the chosen of the -Lord, the young man whom the Judge of Israel had anointed and kissed, -could not be found. What would you think if you believed that God had -bidden you do something, and had confirmed it in such a special, -satisfying, convincing manner, and then suddenly you could go no -further--it was all taken out of your hands. The prophet sought for -Saul and could not find him. Would you not be tempted to say--would -you not really say to yourself, and to the Lord, I have been -mistaken; I went ahead to do God's bidding in all the confidence of -my faith, and before all the people I am ashamed; it is proven that -God did not bid me, that my faith was presumptive, for the time has -come to go on, and I cannot go on--the work is not to be done. It -looks as if I had deceived myself; God has allowed me to believe -something that is not true. Could anything be more heart-breaking? -How could God treat you like that when you believed him so, and were -so in earnest? Would you have the heart to inquire further? They -asked if the man should yet come hither. Samuel had done all he -could. The Lord answered, telling them plainly where the man had -hidden himself. Oh, these hidden people, the Lord knows about. He is -in all their hiding places. Suppose Samuel had stopped, ashamed -before the people, angry, humiliated before the Lord. There had to be -this last trial of faith. At the last eager, sure moment God may have -a new test of faith for us. Is there a hiding place in one of your -last, sure moments? Do not fail before it. God's will is hidden away -in it." - -"Aunt Affy, you do not know what you have done for me," said Marion, -solemnly, "I have just been deciding something for myself. I was -forgetting that God might have a will about it; that there was any -_further_ in it." - -"And here comes Cephas," Aunt Affy replied, rising; "I know the -rattling of those chains--I came in the farm wagon because it was -easier than for him to hitch the horses to the carriage. I'm thankful -enough if I've been of any help to you," she added, touching Marion's -forehead with her sweet, old, happy lips. - -"Shall I send Roger as soon as he comes home?" - -"Yes, and Judith. Judith didn't come yesterday, and Rody kept asking -for her." - -"It may be late. They have gone to Meadow Centre." - -"No matter if it is midnight. Rody didn't sleep last night. She -talked in her sleep, and has been muttering all day; I wouldn't have -left her only I wanted to see the minister alone before he saw her." - -The chains of the farm wagon rattled into the lane. Marion, on the -piazza, watched the old lovers drive away. - - - - -XXII. AUNT AFFY'S EVENING. - - - "When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?" - - --_Job_ xxxiv. 29. - -"I don't want any supper," complained Aunt Rody, rising from the -supper table and staggering toward the sitting-room door. "I'm too -full to eat; too full of deceit; you are all deceiving me." - -"Now, Rody," protested Cephas, buttering his big slice of bread, with -a vigorous touch. - -"All, every one of you," she said with a wail, turning with a slow -effort to face the supper-table; "you have deceived me all your life, -and Affy has, and Joe, and Judith, and Doodles would if he knew how. -Perhaps he does in a dog's way, which isn't half so tremendous as the -human way." - -Joe burst into a laugh, which Aunt Affy's look instantly silenced. - -"Poor Rody," she sighed. - -In the twilight, after the dishes were done, the two old sisters sat -together on the piazza; Rody had insisted upon wiping the dishes, and -as she sat upright in her straight-backed chair, she rubbed her -fingers dry with the brown gingham apron she had forgotten to take -off. - -She rubbed her fingers with an unceasing motion, muttering to -herself. Affy looked off into the twilight, her hands still in her -lap. Joe went whistling up the road to the village; Cephas, in -meditative attitude, in his shirt-sleeves, with his straw hat pushed -to the back of his head, leaned over the gate. - -"All of you, all of you," mumbled the breaking voice, "from my youth -up." - -"Cephas thinks it would be a good thing to sell the milk to the -Dutchman that has bought the Elting farm," began Affy, watching the -effect of her words. "Four cents a quart. And we would be saved the -churning and washing all the milk things. If Joe goes away to learn a -trade we shall have nobody to churn. What do you think, Rody?" - -The drooping head lifted itself, the fingers with the gingham fold -were held with a loosening hand; sharply and shrilly Aunt Rody -replied: "That's always the way; you and Cephas are always putting -your heads together to cheat me out of something. Not a quart of that -milk shall go. Joe shall stay and churn. Mother never sold her milk -to a Dutchman for four cents a quart. What would we do for butter, -I'd like to know." - -"Buy it." - -"Buy it," she repeated, mockingly; "nobody on the Sparrow place ever -paid money for butter." - -"But Cephas thinks--," began Aunt Affy, patiently. - -"Tell Cephas to stop thinking," replied the weakly imperative voice. - -Twilight darkened into night; but Rody refused to go in and go to -bed; she was comfortable, she liked that chair, she liked the stars, -she could breathe better out here in the night air; she did not want -to go into her bedroom, somebody had struck her a blow in there. - -So they stayed, the air blew damp, Aunt Affy brought a shawl and -pinned it about the stooping shoulders; Cephas came and sat down on -the step of the piazza with his hat on his knee, giving uneasy -glances now and then at the muffled, still figure in the chair. - -"It's getting dark," suggested Affy, rising and standing before the -bent figure with its head turned stiffly to one side. - -"And damp--these nights are chilly for old bones," replied Cephas. - -"There's a light in the house," persuaded Affy, "and it's dark out -here." - -"And the bed is so comfortable," added Cephas; "guess I'll go in." - -He arose and went in. - -"I'm going, too," encouraged Affy. "Come, Rody, you may sleep in my -bed." - -"I won't sleep in my bed; are you sure there's nobody to strike me in -your room?" she questioned like a frightened child. - -"Nobody but me. Come, Rody," she urged, gently. - -Placing a hand on each arm of the chair, the old woman lifted herself -to her feet; then she felt out in the darkness for something to lean -on; Affy took her arm and led her in. The lamp was burning on the -round table where the _New York Observer_ was piled; Doodles slept on -his cushion on the lounge. - -"I'll sit here awhile," said Cephas, pulling his spectacle case from -his vest pocket. "I haven't read the paper to-night." - -"I'll sit here, too," said Rody, rousing herself to a decision. -"Somehow I don't want to go to bed. I don't believe it's nine o'clock -yet. I wish the clock would strike. I wish something would make a -noise." - -"It's a quarter of nine," replied Affy, lowering her sister slowly -down into her chair. "It will soon strike." - -"Take this thing off," commanded Rody, tugging at the shawl with her -weak right hand. "You bundle me up as if I was a baby." - -"There's a carriage coming," said Cephas, bending his head and half -shutting his eyes to listen; "he's come, Affy." - -"Who's come?" demanded Aunt Rody, in shrill tone. "Who comes at this -time of night?" - -"The minister; he was coming to bring Judith for an hour or two," -Cephas answered, reassuringly. "She didn't come yesterday. Don't you -want to see her?" - -"Just for a look; I don't want her to stay, I don't want anybody to -stay." - -Roger Kenney and Judith entered quietly; Judith shrank from the old -woman as she stood for an instant beside her chair. Roger drew a -chair nearer and took Aunt Rody's hand into his own. The nerveless -hand lay in his as if glad of the warmth and strength; as he talked, -Roger clasped and unclasped his hand over hers that she might feel -the motion and life of his fingers. - -"I'm glad to see you, Aunt Rody," he said in a voice which was a -tonic. - -"I'm glad to see you," she replied, with the flicker of a smile about -her lips. - -"'Let not your heart be troubled.'" - -"It _is_ troubled; it is full of trouble. It's Affy and Cephas; they -are deceiving me. They want to get married and deceive me more and -more." - -"Shall I tell you how we'll stop that?" asked Roger, bending -confidentially toward her. - -"Yes, do. Tell me quick." - -"Let me marry them, and then you will never think they are deceiving -you again. What is the reason they are deceiving you now?" - -"Because they think I stand between them; they think I've always -stood between them," she said, piteously; "but I never did. I was -seeking their good." - -"But don't you think you have sought their good long enough?" he -asked persuasively. - -"Yes; I've worn myself out for their good. I'm worn out now; they'll -have to do for themselves, after this." - -"Who will take care of Affy after you are gone?" - -"I don't know; I'm sure I don't know. She doesn't know how to take -care of herself." - -"But she was your little baby; you are sorry not to have her taken -care of." - -"Oh, yes, I'm sorry; I'm _very_ sorry." - -Affy dropped on the lounge beside Doodles, and was crying like a -child; Judith went to her and put both her strong young arms about -her and her warm cheek to hers. Cephas cleared his throat, then -busied himself burnishing his spectacles with a piece of old chamois. - -"Somebody must take care of her, Cephas knows how best," said the -minister with firmness, rubbing the cold, limp fingers. - -"Yes, Cephas knows how best," she quavered "Come here, Cephas, and -promise the minister you will always take care of Affy." - -"Go, Aunt Affy," said Judith, in her strong, young voice, "go and be -married while Aunt Rody knows it. She'll change her mind to-morrow--" - -"Oh, I can't, I can't," sobbed Aunt Affy, "with Rody so near dying, -how can I? It's too hurried and dreadful." - -"It's too beautiful," said Judith; "that is all she can do for you; -do let her do it, dear Aunt Affy." - -"Come, Affy," said Cephas solemnly, "the Lord's time has come." - -"Perhaps it has," sobbed Affy, trembling from head to foot, as Judith -led her across the room. - -Roger arose and stood before the old man and the old woman; her head -drooped so that one long curl rested on his shoulder. - -"I'd ought to have a coat on," said Cephas with an ashamed face; "it -isn't proper for a man to be married in his shirt-sleeves." - -"And let me fix up a little," coaxed Aunt Affy; "this is my old -muslin, all faded out." - -"Oh, don't spoil anything," Judith besought; "see how she is watching -you. Aunt Rody, don't you want Uncle Cephas to take care of Aunt -Affy?" - -"Yes, yes, oh, yes. Has he promised the minister?" she asked with -tremulous anxiety. - -"Listen, and you will hear him promise. Joe, come here," Roger called -to the step in the kitchen. - -Joe came to the threshold, threw off his hat, and stood amazed. - -"Aunt Rody, put their hands together," said Judith, taking Aunt -Rody's hands as the old bride and bridegroom stretched their hands -toward her. - -"Did I do it?" she asked, as she felt the touch of both hands. "Is it -done for always?" - -"Yes," said the minister, "you've done it. Now, listen to every word." - -"Has he promised to take care of Affy?" Rody asked, peering up into -Roger's face. - -"Yes, Rody, with all my heart and soul and strength," answered the -old man, with the light of communion Sunday in his face. - -The curl drooped lower on Cephas' shirt-sleeve; Judith stood near -Aunt Affy. - -The solemn, glad words were spoken, the prayer uttered, the -benediction given; Aunt Affy and Uncle Cephas were married. - -"Let me kiss you, Rody," said Affy, through her tears. - -"I kissed you when you were a baby," said Rody. "You were a nice -little baby. Mother said I must always think of you first." - -"Now, you will go to bed," said Affy. "It's after nine o'clock." - -"Not in my room. I'll go in your room. Don't you go away all night. -Keep the light burning, and don't you go." - -"No; I'll stay, Rody; we will take care of you always, Cephas and I." - -Judith stayed that night; Aunt Rody slept well, and arose in the -morning at her usual early hour. She made no allusion to the marriage -that day, nor as long as she lived. - - - - -XXIII. VOICES. - - - "The love for me once crucified, - Is not a love to leave my side, - But waiteth ever to divide - Each smallest care of mine." - -The three were in the study that Sunday afternoon that the Meadow -Centre minister exchanged with Roger Kenney; the minister, the -hostess, and the girl at boarding-school. The boarding-school girl -had a book in her lap with her finger between the leaves, listening. - -"Mr. King talks as though he had never had any one to talk to -before," Judith thought as she watched the two and listened. - -His conversation was filled with bits of information, with incident, -with a thought now and then, absorbingly interesting to a school-girl. - -Roger loved people better than he loved books; Judith had not -outgrown her books, and grown into loving people. The Meadow Centre -minister was a chapter in a most fascinating book; he was the hero of -a story; he was not a being of flesh and blood like Roger. She was -afraid every moment the book would shut and she would read no more of -his story; "to be continued" would end this chapter, and then she -might never see the end of the book. - -"'Conversation is not the road leading to the house,'" he quoted, -"'but a by-path where people walk with pleasure.'" - -"I think it leads to the house," replied Judith, quickly, "if people -are real and sincere. What _does_ lead to the house if conversation -does not?" - -"Deeds," suggested Marion. - -"But we can't do deeds every minute," persisted Judith; "how could we -do deeds sitting here this afternoon." - -"We have done them," said Mr. King; "we are resting in a by-path." - -"But we want to get to the house," insisted Judith. - -"Loitering by the way is pleasant; through the by-way we may learn -the way to the house." - -"Marion, that reminds me of Cousin Don," Judith said, suddenly; "we -know him only through by-ways." - -"Tell me about Cousin Don," said the minister, interestedly. - -Cousin Don was a story Judith loved to tell. - -"You expect to find him unchanged after all these years--the time in -his life when a man changes?" he inquired, astonished. "Is that the -way you understand human nature?" - -"Perhaps I do not understand human nature at all. But I have his -letters." - -"By-ways--they do not lead to the house," he replied. - -"But they can," said Judith, vexed. - -"Oh, yes, they _can_." - -"And I know they do; don't you, Marion?" - -"In this case, I hope so," Marion answered; "I don't see how people -can help being like their letters." - -"Or their letters like them?" corrected Judith. - -"Then how is it we are disappointed in people?" Mr. King questioned; -"is it only our lack of insight?" - -"People change," said Marion, with slow emphasis; "if we were with -them all the time we would see the little changes that lead the way -to the great changes. People are even disappointed in themselves; I -am." - -"So am I," he answered sincerely; "I fall below my own ideal often -enough; if anybody cared enough for me to be disappointed in me they -would have reason enough." - -"I don't believe they would," thought Judith. - -"Mr. King," Marion began doubtfully, "do not answer me if my question -is intrusive; but I would like to know how you read the Bible for -yourself." - -"That _is_ a coincidence," exclaimed Mr. King; "as I was driving -along this morning a question came to me that I never thought of -asking myself before: suppose someone asks you to-day how you study -the Bible _for yourself_, what will you say?" - -"How wonderful," both girls said in the same breath. - -"So I told myself what I would say. One of my ways when I am in -special need of a word from my heavenly Father is to ask him to give -it to me, and then I am sure to find it in my reading. Often I open -and find it; often and often I find it in the chapter that comes next -in my daily reading. Asking the Holy Spirit to open your eyes to see -his special word to you in that special need is the safest way and -the quickest for me. I am assured then that I shall learn that day's -lesson in that day's place. The truth I need most has never failed to -come." - -"That is a very simple way," Marion said. "As simple as a child -asking his mother for something she has promised. The only hindrance -is self-will." - -"Oh, dear, that hinders everything," sighed Judith, who was battling -with the suggestion from within herself that perhaps her -boarding-school days were over and she _ought_ to go back and help -nurse Aunt Rody. The aunts had been so kind to her mother when she -was a homeless little girl, and to herself when she was a homeless -little girl. She had kept it out of her prayers ever since she had -thought of it. If only she had not thought of it. Aunt Affy would -never ask her to give up her studies and her happy home to bury -herself with three old people. - -"Are you far enough along in life to know that?" asked Mr. King, -giving the girl of eighteen a glance of keen interest. - -"I think I was born knowing it," said Judith. "Do you know about -anybody who wanted to do right and had a will of his own--" - -"Oh, yes; they are plenty of us. Three of us in this room," he -laughed. - -"But I meant some one in the Bible, for then we can know certainly -what happened to him." - -"Yes, I find a king who leagued himself with another king to go to -war; but he was not satisfied that he was in the way of obedience, -and he said to the other king, 'Inquire, I pray thee, at the word of -the Lord to-day,' and the other king gathered four hundred men, his -own prophets, and inquired of them what he should do. With one voice -they said, 'Go up; for the Lord shall deliver it into the hands of -the king.' Four hundred answers to his prayer; the Lord's command -four hundred strong. But the king who believed in the true God had -not had his answer; it was the will of the true God he sought. He -said, 'Is there not here, besides, a prophet of the Lord that we -might inquire of him?' The answer was, 'There is yet one man by whom -we may inquire of the Lord.' If there is one way of knowing the -Lord's will, there is no excuse for us; we may know it. Four hundred -voices of self-will are no reason, and no excuse, for not knowing it. -This king who believed in God heard the one voice of God--and -disobeyed it. He joined himself in battle with the king who trusted -in the four hundred voices of his self-will. And the battle went -against him; God had told him so. He believed God afterward; so will -you and I if we disobey. He went to battle as though God had not -spoken." - -"Was he _killed_?" asked Judith, fearful some trouble might fall upon -her if she listened to the voice of self-will. - -"No, he cried out, and the Lord helped him, and moved his enemies to -depart from him. As he returned to his house in peace, a seer met -him, and said, 'For this thing wrath is upon thee from the Lord.'" - -"'For this thing,'" repeated Judith. "For inquiring of the Lord, -learning his will, and then believing the voice of the four hundred -who gave him his own way. Oh, dear, I wish those four hundred would -_never_ speak." - -"There is but one way to silence them; listen to God's voice above -them all." - -"But it is so _hard_," cried Judith, impetuously. - -"Do not choose the easy way of obedience. Choose God's way, and let -me tell you one of his secrets; _his way is always easier than we -think_." - -To hide the tears which would not be kept back Judith hastily left -the study; he did not know, nobody could know, what obedience would -cost her; life at the parsonage was so different; Roger and Marion -were _young_ with her, and Aunt Rody and Aunt Affy, and Uncle Cephas -were so _old_; they had lived their lives, and their days went on -with a long-drawn-out sameness; nothing ever happened to them, they -were not looking forward to anything, there would be no study, no new -books, no music, no getting near the loveliest things in the world; -it was barrenness and dreariness, it was like death; the parsonage -was hope, and youth, and love and life, with the best things yet to -come. "It will stifle me to go back; I shall die of homesickness, I -shall choke to death." - -Cousin Don had a right to her, he was her guardian cousin. Would he -not have a right to come and take her away? But her mother--what would -her mother choose for her to do? - -They had been so kind to her mother. - -"I will go and stay--a week," she resolved, tears rushing afresh; "but -I miss Marion when I stay one single night." - -At the supper-table she announced with reddened eyelids and a voice -that would not be steady that she thought she would go to Aunt Affy's -before evening service and stay over night; Uncle Cephas had told her -that morning that Aunt Affy was very tired. - -"Must you go?" asked Marion. "But I know they need you. Mrs. Evans -said they couldn't get any one, and Aunt Rody was in bed to-day." - -"Perhaps I'll find it easier than I think," said Judith. - -"As soon as they find a nurse you will come back," encouraged Marion. - -During the walk through the village and to the Sparrow place Judith's -courage all oozed away; she grew so faint-hearted that she thought -she was faint; she stopped for a glass of water at the well where the -lilies had come, and went upstairs a moment to talk to Nettie, still -helpless in her invalid chair. - -"The minister came to see me this afternoon," Nettie greeted her; "he -read and prayed and told me things. Has he told you anything?" - -"Yes, and I almost wish he had not. I _have_ to do right -things--whether I want to or not." - -"Are you doing one now? One new one. You look so." - -"I am on the way to it." - -"Where are you going?" - -"Literally and figuratively I am on the way to it. I am giving up -study and everything else to go and take care of Aunt Rody." - -"How splendid of you. I knew you would do something _real_ some day," -Nettie said with enthusiasm. "You haven't been my ideal for nothing. -Mother has kept telling me I might be disappointed in you; but I -_knew_ I never should." - -After that how could she feel faint-hearted? - -"O, Judith," said Aunt Affy, meeting her on the piazza, "how did you -know I couldn't do without you any longer? Joe has gone for the -doctor; Rody has had another spell." - -In her own little room that night the girl knelt on the strip of rag -carpet, and, with her head buried in the pink and white quilt, prayed -that the voices of her self-will might be lost in the voice of the -Holy Spirit. The coming back was even harder than she feared; Mr. -King had not told her God's truth when he said: "_His way is always -easier than we think_." - -The thought that she was bravely doing a hard thing did not brace her -to the bearing of it; she was not bearing it at all; she was living -through it. - -Roger had not once told her she was brave, Marion was not more than -usually sympathetic; the neighbors were taking her coming back as a -matter of course--something to be expected; they would have blamed her -if she had not come; Aunt Rody every day was less fretful toward her, -more satisfied with her nursing; Aunt Affy busy in kitchen and dairy, -with the new importance of her marriage, and being for the first time -mistress in her own house, seemed forgetful that the girl had come -from any brighter life, forgetful that she had ever left the old -place and its homespun ways, and, most discouraging of all, forgetful -that any other help in household or sick-room was desired or might be -had by searching and for money. For the first time in her life Aunt -Affy was selfish. In her own contentment she forgot, or did not think -it possible that the girl of eighteen could be discontented. - -Judith remembered that Harriet Hosmer had said she could be happy -anywhere with good health and a bit of marble. - -But suppose she had not had her bit of marble? - -These days were the history of her summer of stories. - -The doctor told them that Aunt Rody might be helpless in bed for -months; she might gain strength and sit in her chair again. He had -known such instances. That was in the first week; in the second week -he gave them no hope. - -The stricken old woman was alive; that was all she was to Judith: an -old woman who was not dead yet. - -Judith was pitiful; she loved her with a compassionate tenderness as -she would have loved any helpless, stricken thing; but she was hardly -"Aunt Rody" any longer. - -She was as helpless as a baby, with none of a baby's innocence, or -loveliness or lovingness; there was no hope for this gray-haired, -wrinkled mass of human flesh, but in casting off this veil of the -flesh, no hope but in death. It was as if death were alive before -Judith's eyes, and within touch of her hand. - -She had no memory of Aunt Rody as the others had, to give affection -to; there was only _this_. There was scarcely any memory for her -gratitude to cling to. - -There was one comfort left; she was not afraid of her now. - -If she had stayed with her, instead of being at home at the -parsonage, she might have grown up to love and understand her; -instead she had grown away from love and understanding. - -She dared not think of release coming through Aunt Rody's _death_. -That would be desiring her death. Desiring one's death in one's heart -was--. - -There was no hope but in Cousin Don. - - - - -XXIV. "I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU CARED." - - - "'What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?' I cried, - 'A hidden hope,' the voice replied." - - --Tennyson. - -"Judith, don't stay in this little close entry when all out-doors is -calling to you," said Aunt Affy. - -"But I thought she might stir and want something," replied Aunt -Rody's nurse; "she looks up so patient and pitiful when she wants -something." - -"My work is all done; I'll sit here; you are losing your color, -child. What will your Cousin Don say to me when he comes home to -claim you?" - -"He will not come home to do that," said Judith, rising reluctantly -to give Aunt Affy her low chair. "I have a foreboding that something -is happening to him. He never forgot me before." - -"Forebodings come out of tired head and feet and back. I am allowing -you to do too much. This is Saturday afternoon and your play time. -The baking is done, and now that we are rid of churning--what _would_ -poor Rody say to me for selling the milk and making no butter? I feel -that I am 'deceiving' her at every turn about the house. Run up -stairs and put on the blue muslin you look so cool in, and go out in -the hammock and forget the responsibility that takes away your -appetite and gives you big eyes. Dear child, death must come. It is -the voice of the Lord calling Rody. You know what George MacDonald -says: Death is only going to sleep when one is downright sleepy. Rody -_is_ downright sleepy. Think how she sleeps half the time, poor old -soul." - -"Do you think she is glad to be 'downright sleepy'?" - -"Aren't you, always, when your night comes?" - -"But, Aunt Affy, she hasn't been--she wasn't--I did not think she -cared." - -"Her light has almost gone out, sometimes, I do believe. But it's -there, burning. She has a spark of real faith that never went out. -She wasn't as loving in her ways as she was in her heart. Now, don't -stand another minute. I want you to go to church to-morrow, too. John -Kenney is out on the piazza waiting for you; he's come to the -parsonage to spend Sunday." - -In an instant Judith was all light and color. John Kenney was the kind -of a friend that no one else in the world was; as grave as the -minister himself, at times, as book loving, and yet as full of fun -and frolic as a boy; he was taller than Roger, and handsome; Roger -was fine, but he was not handsome; she had no fear or reverence for -John, he stood beside her, and walked beside her; they were boy and -girl together; John was nearly three years older; he would be -twenty-one in the winter. She stood still radiant. - -"You look rested enough now," remarked Aunt Affy. - -"I was not so tired, I was only blue; I was thinking about Don. John -has been away all summer; he has not been in Bensalem since my -birthday." - -"Did he come for that?" inquired Aunt Affy, keeping any suggestion -out of her voice. She would not put ideas into the child's head. - -"He said so. And to say good-bye to the parsonage. We agreed not to -write to each other while he was out west." - -"What for," questioned Aunt Affy, suspiciously. "Had you ever written -to each other before?" - -"No," laughed Judith, softly, "and we agreed not to begin." - -"What for?" asked Aunt Affy, again. - -"For fun, I think, as much as anything. I think we had no real -reason." - -"Two such reasonable creatures, too. Judith, you _had_ a reason or he -had. Why should the question come up?" Aunt Affy asked severely. - -"Oh, questions are always coming up. He asked me if I would write and -I refused." - -"And that's how you agreed together. What was _your_ reason?" - -"I think," began Judith slowly, "I was afraid Roger wouldn't like it. -Or Marion. Marion is particular about such things. I'm afraid she had -something to trouble her once--she never will tease anybody about -anybody, even." - -"Well, be off, and dress. I told John you would not be out for some -time." - -"I'll go in this dress. I haven't seen him for months." - -Whether the haste augured well or ill for John, Aunt Affy could not -decide; she went into Aunt Rody's bedroom, touched her forehead and -spoke to her. - -"Are you sleepy, Rody?" - -"Yes." - -"Would you like anything?" - -"No." - -Aunt Affy, with her mending for her husband and for Joe, kept watch -in the entry, lighted by the open back door, all the afternoon. - -After half an hour on the piazza, Judith gave John Aunt Affy's latest -magazine to amuse himself with, and went up to her small chamber, to -braid her tumbled hair and to array herself in the fresh, blue muslin. - -In the cracked glass over the old bureau she met the reflection of a -girl with joyful eyes and cheeks like pink roses. She knew that was -not the girl that had watched Aunt Rody in the entry. - -Her summer companion had come back; he was her vacation friend; -perhaps she had missed him; perhaps her loneliness had not all been -for her Cousin Don. He was still in her world; across the continent -had not been in her world. He had not sent her one message through -letters to Marion or Roger. She had not dared write to him. But he -was home again, just as grave, and just as bright, with no reproach -in his eyes, and he was planning to stay a week. He had come to talk -to Roger and decide his choice of business in life; his father wished -to take him into his own business, the jeweller's, either in the -factory or store, but he had no taste for making jewelry, or selling -it, he said; he would rather study; he was "not good enough" to be a -minister; he would like to study medicine. - -Judith made herself as fresh and pretty as girls love to be, -pondering the while John's choice of work in life. She would choose -for him to be like Roger, and do Roger's work, but if he did not -believe himself to be "called" like Roger, that would not be -acceptable work; was not healing a part of Christ's work; was not -John gentle, sympathetic, and in love with every human creature? He -had a copy of something of Drummond's in his pocket; he said Drummond -was making a man of him. The beginning of his manhood was in joining -a Boy's Brigade while he was away at boarding school up the Hudson. -When she came back to the piazza he said he would read to her -Drummond's address to a Boy's Brigade. - -He had grown more grave since he went away; he told her the weight of -what to do and what not to do was heavy upon him night and day. - -"And he has such laughing brown eyes," she said, almost aloud, to the -girl in blue muslin, reflected in the cracked mirror. - -"What are _you_ going to do?" he inquired as he pushed a piazza chair -near the hammock for her, and stretched himself in the hammock that -he might look up at her and watch her as he talked. - -"Must I do something?" - -"You are old enough to decide. Girls are always deciding. Martha and -Lou are forever taking up something new. They are not satisfied to be -housekeepers. How Marion has settled down since she came to Bensalem! -To be Roger's housekeeper and a deaconess in his church has come to -be her only ambition. Is that yours, too?" - -"Which?" she asked with serious lips and dancing eyes. - -"Both." - -"My Cousin Don thinks he has my future in his right hand. But I'm -afraid his right hand is finding business he likes better." - -"Tell me true, what do you wish most to do?" - -"If you cannot decide for yourself, how can you expect me to decide -for myself?" - -"I do know. I have decided. I am simply waiting for Roger's judgment -to confirm my choice. I want him to talk father over. Father wants -one of his sons in the business, and Maurice declares he will not go -in--he wants to be an architect. He has decided talent; as I have not, -but am only commonplace and a drudgery sort of a fellow; I may take -business instead of medicine to please father and help Maurice out. -Mother beseeches me to please father; she almost put it 'obey' my -father. What do _you_ advise me?" - -"O, John, is it like that? I thought there was nothing in the way but -your own choice." - -"There is not. Father will give a grudging consent. I think he gave -me my California trip to give me time to think--perhaps to think of -his wishes. He went into the business to please his father." - -"He has not regretted it." - -"Far from it. He congratulates himself. I know a fellow whose father -gave him a 'thrashing' to make him go to college; his grandfather had -given his father a 'thrashing' and made him go." - -"Did he go?" - -"The fellow I know? No; he ran away." - -"Do you want to run away?" - -"I ran away to Bensalem to ask Roger." - -"I think Roger will urge you to please your father." - -"Father was glad enough for Roger to study." - -"That was because of the choice of study." - -"I knew that. But my choice is no mean one." - -"I think a natural bent should be respected," reasoned Judith. - -"I don't know that I _have_ a natural bent. A great English physician -writes that he decided to study medicine when he was a boy because -his father's physician came to the house with a coat trimmed with -gold lace. He was after the gold lace." - -"What are _you_ after?" - -"Money, reputation--position--" - -"I don't believe it," she answered, earnestly. - -"Oh, I would like them thrown in," he laughed. - -"In the Boy's Brigade you didn't make them first." - -"What do you make first?" - -"Aunt Rody, just now." - -"What second, then?" - -"Talking to you, on the piazza." - -"Judith," catching her hands and holding them fast, "decide for me. -Shall I study medicine, or shall I please my father and mother?" - -"I cannot decide for you," she said, lightly, withdrawing her hands. - -"You don't care." - -"I do care." - -"Decide then." - -"I am not the one to decide." - -"You are; if I put the decision in your hands." - -"But I am only a girl." - -"That is why I ask you. Girls see clear. They do not love money, they -are not ambitious." - -"I do not love money. I may be ambitious." - -"How are you ambitious?" - -She flushed and would not reply. - -"About your stories? Do you expect to write?" - -"I expect to write. I cannot help it; it is _in_ me and will come -out. Nothing much, perhaps; only little things, but I love them." - -"I do not think medicine is 'in me' like that. I simply like a -profession better than the routine and drudgery of business." - -"That is not a great motive." - -"No; and that boy's gold lace wasn't; but he made a success." - -"Yes," was all Judith said. - -"You are displeased with me." - -"I am disappointed. I thought you _cared_." - -"I do; in a certain way." - -"But not in the best way." - -"Judith, I am not 'great' or 'best.'" - -"I thought you were; I want you to be." - -"That is a motive," he said, catching her hands again. "Judith, if -you will tell me you love me and will marry me, I will go home and -tell my father I will make gold rings and sell them to the end of my -days; but you must let me put one on your finger." - -"If you made it I'm afraid it wouldn't fit," she laughed, again -withdrawing her hands. - -"Will you, if it fits?" - -"I cannot tell until I try." - -"Don't play with me. It is neither 'great' nor 'best' for a girl to -do that." - -"You frighten me," she said, with a sound in her breath like a sob. - -"I beg your pardon." - -"I cannot promise. I do not want to promise. I never thought of it." - -"You think I am only a boy." - -"I am only a girl." - -"I did not just think of it. You think I am too sudden and impulsive. -I thought of you all the time I was gone. I have loved you ever since -I knew you. How can anybody help loving you? You meant Bensalem to me -more than Roger and Marion did. I have been afraid somebody would -guess. I was afraid somebody would keep you away from me. Judith, -don't you care for me, at all?" - -"Yes, John; but not like _that_. I couldn't promise that. I never -thought you cared like that." - -"How did you think I cared?" he asked, passionately; "in a -grandfatherly way like Roger?" - -"I do not know," she answered sadly; "you were so good to me, and I -liked you. I didn't think." - -"Will you think now?" he asked, gently. "Will you think and tell me?" - -"When?" - -"As soon as you know yourself. I will wait years and years." - -"Yes, I will tell you as soon as I know myself," she promised. - -"Then I will wait. You are worth waiting for." - -"John, ought I to tell Marion?" - -"No. Do not tell anybody. It is my secret. You haven't any secret. -Nobody need ever know, I will never be pitied." - -Judith pitied him then. - -"I am not bound in any way. I haven't promised, John." - -"No; you haven't," he said, touched by the sorrow in her face. "I am -sorry to trouble you so; but I had to say it. I came to Bensalem to -say it." - -"Are you sorry you came?" - -"No; I had to have it out. Perhaps it will make a man of me. -Something will have to. A man needs some kind of a fight." - -Judith thought that it was not only his "fight." - -"I am going home; I can't stay here. I'll tell Roger I decided not to -stay over Sunday. I don't care what he thinks. We talked till twelve -o'clock last night. I know what he thinks. I'll walk to Dunellen to -the train, I'd like to start and walk around the world." - -"John." Judith's eyes were filled with tears. - -"Don't feel like that," he answered, roughly; "it's bad enough for me -to feel for myself without feeling for you. I have always thought you -cared." - -"I _do_ care." - -"That's no way to care." - -He walked off, not turning for her low word of farewell. - -She would have kept him had she dared. - - - - -XXV. COUSIN DON. - - - "If we are ever in doubt what to do, it is a good rule to ask - ourselves what we shall wish on the morrow we had done." - - --Sir John Lubbuck. - -The first day of September, late in the afternoon, Judith stood over -the kitchen stove making beef-tea for Aunt Rody. The weekly letters -from Don had failed--failed for three weeks; but twice before in five -years had she missed a letter. At the step behind her she did not -raise her eyes; the beef-tea was ready to strain; at this moment she -had no interest in the world but that beef-tea. - -"Judith, are you ready for news?" asked Roger. - -"Good news?" she asked, forgetting her beef-tea and turning towards -him, radiant. - -"That depends upon how you take it." - -"I'll take it in the way to _make_ it good, then. I'm not ready for -anything unpleasant," she said, with a vain attempt to keep her lips -from quivering. - -"Then I'll tell you. Guess who is married. But you will never guess," -he replied with confident eagerness. - -"Some one in Bensalem?" - -"No." - -"Bensalem is all my world." - -"You forget somebody on the other side of the world." - -"Not Cousin Don," in the most startled surprise. - -"Cousin Don. It's a stroke of genius, or something. He never did -anything like other people. Just as he was on the point of starting -for home, he decided to stay and marry an English girl he found out -he was in love with; or found out she was in love with him; he seems -rather surprised himself. They were married the day he expected to -sail for home." - -"Then why didn't he come and bring her?" asked Judith as soon as she -could find her voice. - -"The English girl would rather stay in England, or on the Continent; -she has no fancy to live in America." - -"I'm afraid--he didn't want to," said Judith who could not believe -that Cousin Don had failed her. - -"He never did a thing he didn't want to in his life." - -"But he has not been quite fair to keep it from us; I did not think -he _could_ do such a thing." - -"He did not keep it all from me," Roger replied, seriously; "perhaps -I should have prepared you for it. He has been interested in her for -some time, visited her in England--whether he did not know his own -mind, or she did not know hers does not appear; but now they both -seem to be of the same mind. Judith, dear, it isn't such a dreadful -thing." - -"Not to you," said Judith. - -Now, he would never come and take her away. No one would ever take -her away. She did not belong to him any longer. - -"Judith," began Aunt Affy, hurriedly in the kitchen doorway. "Oh, you -_are_ fixing the beef-tea." - -She strained the beef-tea, salted it, poured it into a cup, and went -to Aunt Rody's entry bed-room as if she were in a dream, not -thinking, or feeling anything but that she was left alone in the -world, her Cousin Don had cast her off, he had broken his word to her -mother, he had not cared for her as if she were his little sister. He -did not even care to write and tell her that he was married and not -coming home. - -"Poor child," Aunt Affy was saying in the kitchen, "it will break her -heart." - -"It shall not break her heart," was the fierce answer. "I would -rather have told her he was dead than married--for her own sake. I -cannot understand his shameful neglect. No money has come for her for -six months--but she will never know that. His letter to me gives only -the news of his marriage--his first letter for a month--but he has -never written to me regularly as he has to her. It would be a -satisfaction to run over to England to have it out with him." - -"But he had a right to be married," said Aunt Affy, doubtfully. - -"I am not questioning that. He had no right to hurt this child so--she -has believed in him as if he were an angel sent out of Heaven for her -special protection." - -"He isn't the only angel," said Aunt Affy, composedly. "I have been -counting on him. That's why I have had no help--I didn't bestir myself -for I expected news of his coming every week. Mrs. Evans's sister, a -widow who goes out nursing, can come the middle of this month. I -didn't tell Judith. I thought she was happy in being a ministering -angel herself. And then she was going away so soon, if her Cousin Don -should come I wanted her here when he came." - -"You had better send for the nurse," said Roger, dryly. - -"I'll go after supper and see Mrs. Evans. I suppose you and Miss -Marion will want my little girl again." - -"We certainly shall," replied Roger with emphasis, "more than ever, -now." - -"But she mustn't be an expense to you," said Aunt Affy, with an -anxious frown. - -"Never you mind the expense. If I don't burn Don Mackenzie up in a -letter, it will be because there are no words hot enough. I wish I -could send him her face as she came to the understanding of my news. -It would rather mar his honeymoon. I've kept this news a week, and -now I had to come and blurt it out." - - - - -XXVI. AUNT AFFY'S FAITH AND JUDITH'S FOREIGN LETTER. - - - "If I could only surely know - That all these things that tire me so - Were noticed by my Lord." - -At the supper table Aunt Affy asked Judith if she would sit in the -entry near Aunt Rody's door and watch while she "ran out a minute to -see Mrs. Evans about something." - -With the instinct of the story-teller Judith remembered the little -girl who used to sit there and sew carpet-rags, and began to weave -herself into a story; the "The Child's Outlook" was not very hopeful, -she thought, but she gave the story a happy ending, just as she -herself expected to have a happy ending. She did not know why she had -to sit there and watch; there had been no change for days; perhaps -Aunt Affy wished her to sit and watch for Aunt Rody to die. The light -from a shaded lamp on a table at the foot of the bed, did not touch -the sleeping face--the sleeping face, or the dead face, and Judith's -eyes were turned away; she was watching without seeing. - -She was too miserable to open a book; she was too miserable to think; -she thought she was too miserable to pray. - -The tears came softly, softly and slowly; face and fingers were wet; -the only cry in her heart was "mother, mother." - -"Mother, I want you," she sobbed, "will not God let you come back a -_little_ while?" - -The doors were wide open all through the house; in the sitting-room -there were low voices, at first her dulled ears caught no articulate -word, then the voice of Mrs. Evans spoke clearly: she was saying -something about "faith." - -Perhaps, the listener thought penitently, she herself was weeping -because she had no faith. - -Now Aunt Affy was speaking; she loved to hear Aunt Affy talk. Mrs. -Evans must have come and hindered Aunt Affy in her call; perhaps they -both wished to talk about the same thing; but they were both talking -about faith. She wished Aunt Rody might hear; she was afraid Aunt -Rody was lying there uncomforted. She had never thought of Aunt Rody -as a "disciple." - -In Judith's thought Aunt Affy dwelt apart. - -If you called upon Mrs. Finch she would ask you to "step in" to the -kitchen where her work was going on; Mrs. Evans with conscious pride -would throw open to you the door of her prettily furnished parlor; -Agnes Trembly would take you into her sewing-room; a call upon the -minister meant the study; Marion's guests were made at home -everywhere within and without the parsonage; but Aunt Affy's visitor -was taken to her sanctuary, the place where she prayed to God and -worshipped, to the inmost chamber of her consecrated heart. Aunt Affy -kept nothing back; she gave herself. - -With lifted head, and intent eyes, there in the dark she listened to -Aunt Affy's impressive speaking: - -"Once, it was in June, I was in prayer-meeting, and I was -constrained--a pressure was upon me--to pray for more faith. I must -have more faith. Not aware that I was in special need through trial -or temptation, I hesitated. Could I ask for what I did not feel the -need of? But only for an instant, the constraint was strong, and so -sweet (the very touch of the Holy Spirit), and in faith I asked for -more faith. Then I trembled. Might this sweet pressure not be a -prophecy of sorrow? Had I not just this experience, and a few days -later brought the tidings of the sudden death of one very dear to me? -I had the asked-for faith then, and it bore me through. Was this -constraint the comfort coming beforehand? To take God's will as he -would have me take it, I must needs have this faith. It was not too -hard before; could I not trust him again? - -"Before the week was over, unexpected happiness was given me. Ah, I -thought, this is what the faith is for! For we cannot take happiness -and make him glorious in it, but for this faith. God knows we need -faith to bear prosperity. So for days the happiness and faith went on -together, and then, don't be afraid, dear heart, and then came, but -not with the shock of suddenness, the great strain, when heart and -flesh must have failed but for the faith the Holy Spirit constrained -me to ask. The prayer was in June--all August was the answer." - -"Affy Sparrow, you make me afraid," was Mrs. Evans's quick, almost -indignant answer. - -"If you will only think you will not be afraid." - -Judith listening, was not afraid. Never since her mother went away -and left her alone with Aunt Affy had she felt the need of faith, of -_holding on_ to her heavenly Father, as she did to-night. - -"At one time," Aunt Affy went on with her fervent, glad faith, "I was -moved to cry out: 'O, Lord, do not leave me, I shall fall, I cannot -keep myself, there is nothing to keep myself _in_ me.' I awoke that -night again and again with the same cry in my heart, the same agony -on my lips. 'How _can_ he leave me?' I asked myself over and over. -'It is not like him; especially when I have begged him to stay.' Was -I in the shadow of a temptation that was to come? The next day the -temptation came; for one overpowering instant I was left to wonder if -he _had_ left me; then I knew that he was perfect truth as well as -perfect love; I said: 'Lord, I am very simple, be simple with me.' -Then the wave rolled over me, not touching me. I was tempted--tempted -to unbelief; but _was_ I tempted? Did the temptation come near enough -for that? I could only say over and over, _Lord, I believe in thee_. -My temptation came and he did not leave me." - -"Affy, you are supernatural. You have supernatural experiences," -replied Mrs. Evans in a tone of awe, and considerable displeasure. - -"You and I do not know what other people in Bensalem are going -through," was the gentle remonstrance. - -"I hope not through such terrible things as that." - -"I hoped I was helping you," said Aunt Affy, grieved. - -"That doesn't help. It doesn't help _me_. I'd be afraid to pray for -faith if I knew it was to prepare me for trouble." - -"Would you rather be unprepared for trouble?" was the quiet question. - -"I'd rather the trouble wouldn't come." - -"Then you would rather God wouldn't have his way with you." - -"I don't like _that_ way, I confess, but I have to have trouble like -everybody else. You have had as little of it--the worst kind I mean, -as anybody ever had--your troubles have been spiritual troubles, and -you are having your own way now about everything." - -"Yes, too much. I'm afraid every day of being a selfish, careless -woman. A dozen times a day I wonder what Rody would say to me if she -only knew what we are doing; selling the milk for instance. Sometimes -I stop in the middle of something as if her hand were on my shoulder. -Your sister can come next week, then?" - -"As far as I know; she'll be ten times better help than Judith; she's -strong and used to sickness. She can _lift_ Rody, and that's what you -want. I thought the parsonage folks had spoilt Judith for you by -making her too much of a lady." - -"Judith is not spoiled," was the quiet rejoinder. - -"You will find my sister Sarah ready for any emergency. What do you -think she's been doing to get into the paper? She sent me the paper -with the thing marked in it. I wish I had brought the paper; I'll -show it to you some time. You know she lives, when she's at home, -near a tunnel; well that tunnel caved in one day just after a -passenger train had passed through; she knew there would be another -train soon, and she had her red petticoat ready and ran out as it -came thundering on, and swung it in the air until she stopped the -train--and just within a few feet of the tunnel, too. Wasn't that -pluck?" - -"Where's Judith?" called Joe's voice. "I have a letter for her; one -of the foreign letters she used to be so raving glad to get." - -In the half light Judith sprang toward the letter. There was no light -in the sitting-room; on the kitchen table a lamp was burning; she was -glad to read it unquestioned. Snatching at its meaning she ran -through the three thin sheets; then she read it deliberately, -understandingly. - -He had written to tell her of his marriage, and two weeks afterward, -on his wedding tour, found the unmailed letter in his pocket. That -letter he had destroyed, and, after a week to plan and decide what to -propose to her, had written again--was writing again now, in fact. The -shortest way to her forgiveness he believed to be to ask her to come -to England, not to be his housekeeper, but to be his wife's dear -little friend and cousin, as well as his own. But, if she decided not -to do that, and the plan did have its disadvantages (he had not yet -asked his wife's advice or consent), would she be happy to stay on at -the parsonage, or at Aunt Affy's just as usual? He would never forget -her, she would always be his dearest little cousin in the world, and -he knew she and Florence would be the best of friends if they could -know each other. Florence had a prejudice against America, but that -would wear off. He very much regretted he had never written about -Florence, but she was something of a flirt and had never allowed him -to be sure of her until she knew he had taken passage for America. He -hoped she would write to Florence and then they would understand each -other better. She must be sure to write to _him_ by return mail. He -hoped the delayed letter had not made her uncomfortable. He was -always her devoted Cousin Don. - -Mrs. Evans went home, passing through the kitchen; Aunt Affy had told -her of the unexpected marriage of Judith's cousin; she was curious to -catch a glimpse of the girl's face over his letter. It would be -something to tell Nettie. With her usual thoughtfulness Aunt Affy -asked no question concerning the letter. That night Judith could not -bring herself to show the letter; the next morning she gave it to her -to read, and then asked if she might be spared to go to the parsonage. - -"Yes, dear child. And stay all day if you like. I'll do for Rody. She -will not ask for you. She called me Becky in the night. It's the -first time she has not recognized me. And when Mrs. Evans's sister, -Mrs. Treadwell comes, you may go and have a long rest and study -again." - -"I don't deserve that," said Judith, breaking into sobs; "I haven't -been good, and I don't deserve anything." - -"No matter, you'll get it just the same," said Aunt Affy, patting her -shoulder with a loving touch. "And, after _this_, you are to come to -me for money--you are to be my own child; my little girl, and Cephas' -little girl." - -With her head on Aunt Affy's shoulder Judith laughed and cried; she -even began to feel glad of something--not that Don was married, or -that she was not to be his housekeeper, or that she was not to be -Aunt Rody's nurse; it was almost wrong to be glad when she should be -disappointed; then she knew she was glad because no one in all the -world had the right to take her away from the parsonage. - -The way of obedience _had_ been easier than she thought. She stayed -that day with Aunt Rody, doing little last things for her, and -telling Aunt Affy ways of nursing that pleased Aunt Rody that she had -discovered for herself. - -"She will miss you," Aunt Affy said that evening, as Judith came into -the sitting-room dressed for her walk. Doodles was snoring upon his -cushion on the lounge; Uncle Cephas, at the round table, was lost in -the day's paper; Joe, at another table, was reading a book he had -found under rubbish in the storeroom: this last year he had developed -a taste for books. - -The girl lingered, with her satchel in her hand; the dear old home -was a hard place to leave; without the cloud of Aunt Rody's presence -it was peace and sunshine. - -Aunt Affy, with her pretty, gray head, her light step, her words of -comfort and courage, moved about like a benediction; Uncle Cephas, -rough and kindly, with strength in reserve for every emergency, gave, -to the house the headship it had always lacked; Joe, to-night, was -fine and sturdy, and growing into somebody; would they miss her? - -Was the girl going away any real part of the strength and beauty of -the old Sparrow place? - -She was going because she chose to go. - -Joe had asked her if she were "going for good." Was to-night another -turning-point? - -If she stayed would her life to come be any different? - -In anybody's eyes was there a difference between belonging to the -parsonage and belonging to the Sparrow place? - -No one was taking her away, she was going of her own free will. - -With a sudden impulse she dropped her satchel in Aunt Rody's empty -chair and ran up the kitchen stairs to stay a few moments alone in -the chamber her mother used to have when she was a little girl. - - - - -XXVII. HIS VERY BEST. - - - "Lord, teach us to pray." - - --_Luke_ xi. 1. - - "O Thou, by whom we come to God, - The Life, the Truth, the Way! - The path of prayer Thyself hast trod; - Lord, teach me to pray." - -Judith stood on the parsonage piazza; a voice within was unfamiliar, -then in a change of tone she recognized something and was reminded of -her afternoon at Meadow Centre; that laugh she had heard before, it -was not Don--it was--the face at the window looked out into the -shadows,--it was Richard King. He was a strong tower; he was safe, -like her parsonage life; she would go in and feel at home. No new -face or voice would ever come between and keep her away. Across the -room, as she discovered by a peep through the curtains, Marion sat -with some of her usual pretty work in her hand; Roger was not there. - -"In the excavations in Babylon," Mr. King went on in easy -continuation of the subject in hand, "a collection of bowls was -found, inscribed with adjurations of all sorts of spirits by name, -and with indications that could not be mistaken of medicines they -once held. You know, that capital R with which the physician heads -his prescription, believing it stands for Recipe, in the days of -superstition was understood to be an appeal to Jupiter." - -"That was consistent," Marion replied, still bending over her work. - -"Imagine our physicians writing at the head of a prescription: _In -the name of Jesus Christ_." - -"As Peter did when he healed the lame man." - -"Our old Meadow Brook physician prays with his patients very often; I -tell him he leaves nothing for the parson to do." - -"Roger says sometimes the doctor has a way of getting nearer our -Bensalem people than he has." - -"I am not sure of that. They tell the doctor a different kind of -trouble. You would be amazed--if you were not the minister's sister--at -the histories people tell me about themselves, and their neighbors." - -"I am always delighted that people have a story to tell. When I first -came to Bensalem I thought no man, woman, or child, lived a life -worth living. Now I know the sweetest stories. Aunt Affy is one, and -Nettie Evans, and even her hard-featured mother brims over once in a -while with an experience." - -The coming back from Babylon to Bensalem brought Judith to the -consciousness that she might be considered an eavesdropper; at that -instant Roger entered in his shirt-sleeves, remarking: "Let's be -informal, like Wordsworth. He used to take out his teeth evenings -when he did not expect callers." - -"But you _have_ a caller," remonstrated Marion, when the laughter -ceased. - -"Yes, and here's another one," Roger replied, as Judith walked softly -in. "Judith, must I put on my coat? I've been potting plants for -Marion and I couldn't afford to soil my coat." - -"Yes," said Judith, who was always on Marion's side in influencing -the Bensalem minister to remember the claims of society. - -"I wish you had stayed at home. What are you looking so full of news -about?" - -"I have come back--to stay. No one else in the world wants me." - -"And we don't," declared Roger. - -Something in the gleam of the eyes under Richard King's tangled -eyebrows was a revelation to Marion. She knew his secret. She would -keep it. Roger was stupid, he would never guess. But how could she -keep it from Judith? Poor little Judith, was she growing up to have a -love story? To-night Marion did not like love stories. - -She wished the tall girl with the serious eyes and braided hair were -a little girl with long curls. - -"Did _you_ get a letter from Don to-night?" Roger asked. - -"Yes." - -"How do you like it?" - -"I--think I like it. It will not make any difference to me--only the -difference that it hasn't made." - -"A good distinction," remarked Richard King. - -"May I go upstairs, Marion?" - -"Surely--your room has been waiting for you as the Holy Land waited -for the Israelites to return from their captivity; nobody spoiled -either, or occupied either." - -"Mine was not seventy years," said Judith, "although sometimes it -seemed like it." - -Marion did not follow her; it would not be an easy thing to talk to -Judith about Don's marriage; she was relieved that the only view the -girl would take of it would be in regard to the difference it made to -herself. - -When Judith returned, feeling as much at home as though she had been -away but for a night, Marion was matching silks for her work, and the -gentlemen were talking, sitting opposite each other in the bay window. - -It had been so long since she had heard Roger talk; that "talk" was -one of the delights of her parsonage life. She had heard him preach -but once during her stay at Aunt Affy's. - -"That point about praying came up," Mr. King was saying, "and I am -not satisfied with the answer I gave. The man gave his experience--it -was an experience of years--and then he asked me what was the matter -with his prayer, and I decidedly did not know. I know he has -fulfilled the conditions, praying in faith, and in the name of -Christ, and the thing prayed for was innocent in itself. He said, -'What _is_ the matter with me?' and I could not tell. He went away -unsatisfied. I went down on my knees, you may be sure, thinking -something was the matter with _me_ because I had no illumination for -him." - -Roger's strong, brown hand was stretched along the arm of his chair; -he looked down at his fingers in deep thought. - -"He said he had been praying months to learn if the petition in -itself were not acceptable to God, and had, he thought, studied a -hundred prayers in the Bible, comparing his prayer with the -acceptable and unacceptable prayers of the old saints." - -"He is determined to get at the bottom of it," said Roger. - -"I never saw a man more determined. I quoted Phillips Brooks to him: -'You have not got your answer, but you have got God.'" - -"He was not satisfied with that getting?" - -"No. He said he knew he should not be satisfied until he had God's -answer to himself. I think he has almost lost sight of the thing he -was anxious for when he began to pray. It has been worth a course in -theology to him." - -Marion dropped her silks; Judith was listening with all the eagerness -of her childhood. She felt sure Aunt Affy could explain the -difficulty. - -"The thing that strikes me," began Roger, "is that he may be like -those men sent to the house of God to inquire about fasting." - -"Well?" questioned Richard King. - -"These men went to pray before the Lord and to ask a question. Their -question was about fasting; but fasting has to do with praying--your -friend has certainly been in a weeping and fasting spirit. They -asked: Should I weep in the fifth month separating myself, as I have -done these so many years? - -"The Lord's answer came through the prophet Zechariah. He understood -all about that so many years separating themselves and fasting. He -told them the fasting was not so much to him as for them to hear the -words which the Lord hath cried by the former prophets. They might -better study his revealed will than seek to find a new answer to this -question of fasting. The fasting in itself was all right if they -wished to fast. 'When ye fasted did ye do it to me?' he asked. 'When -ye did eat and when ye did drink, did ye not eat for yourselves, and -drink for yourselves?' In feasting and fasting they had been selfish. -Then he gives them plain words of command, like the plain words the -former prophets had spoken. Obedience was better than fasting; better -even than coming to him to inquire about fasting. There is a parallel -in the history of one of Joshua's prayers. He could not understand -why the people should flee before their enemies. Then he rent his -clothes and fell to the earth, the elders, also, all day, with dust -on their heads; praying and fasting. - -"But the Lord's answer was: 'Get thee up; wherefore liest thou thus -upon thy face?' - -"Tell your old man praying and fasting are good, but sometimes God -has enough of them. He prefers obedience. The conditions of the -covenant had been violated by disobedience in both instances. Praying -in faith, and in the name of Christ, are but two conditions; hearing -and obeying is a third condition. Your man may be in the midst of a -very interesting experience, but I would advise him to stop -questioning the Lord, and try what a little obedience would do." - -"But, he's a _good_ man, Roger," urged Judith, "only a good man could -bear a trial like that." - -"Good men have favorite little ways of disobedience, sometimes; God's -own remedy is more obedience." - -"I wish we could know all about it--the rest of the story, and, if he -ever has his prayer," said Marion, to whom "people" were becoming a -real and live interest. - -"Joshua had his prayer. The story of Ai is the story of how God -answers prayer when he has made way for it; it shows his disciplinary -government; it places obedience before all things; obedience makes -God's answers to prayer a natural proceeding." - -"I'm afraid I have depended too much on prayer," Judith answered, -troubled. - -"Oh, no," Mr. King reassured her, "only you have not depended enough -on obedience. I will call upon my old man to-morrow and tell him -these two stories of disciplinary government." - -"You are not going home, to-night, old fellow," urged Roger, "the -girls will give us some music. We four will make a fine quartette." - -"Miss Judith, did you know I have a housekeeper?" he asked, turning -brightly to Judith. - -"I am very glad." - -"So are we all of us," declared Roger. - -"A man and his wife I have taken in. She's a good cook; the house is -a different affair; I wish you would come and see. The man gets work -among the farmers and takes care of my horse, which I used to do -myself. They are both grateful for a home and I am very happy to be -set in a family." - -Judith fell asleep thinking of Aunt Rody's beef-tea, and wondering if -Aunt Affy would remember to keep the water bag at her poor, cold feet. - -It was luxury to be at home again; to be at home and in the way of -obedience. That was God's will on earth as it was in Heaven. - -The next day the gentlemen went fishing and Marion and Judith kept -the long day to themselves. In the afternoon Marion and Nettie had -their weekly history talk, and, Judith shut herself up in the study -and wrote a story about a girl who learned a new lesson in the way of -obedience. The story was from a child's standpoint; in writing for -children she was keeping her heart as fresh as the heart of a little -child. - -"Judith," said Roger that evening as the "quartette" were together in -the study, "I have a thought of work for you; you smell work from -afar as the warhorse scents the battle; how would you like to write -up the childhood of a dozen famous women? The study itself will be -delightful, and the writing more so. Call the series: '_When I was a -Girl_.'" - -"I would _like_ it," was the unhesitating reply, "if I can do it." - -"You can do it. You can do anything you like." - -"Then I will," she decided, thus encouraged. - -"But the books?" said Richard King, ready to place his own -bookshelves at her service. - -"Oh, the books are easily found. There's our school library, and the -Public Library in Dunellen, and everybody's house to ransack in -Bensalem. Besides, my own library is no mean affair. Books and -fishing are my laziness and luxury. No hurried work, Judith, -remember. You shall not read the first one of the series to me until -a month from to-day." - -"Are you such a slow worker yourself?" Roger's friend inquired. - -"I am a plodder. And I believe in other people plodding. I believe -that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. I have sermons -laid away to mellow that I've been six months on." - -"But you do other writing and studying in the mean time," said Judith. - -"Oh, yes, while the seed is sprouting." - -"Kenney, you are planning something." - -"Yes, I am planning to salt down a barrel of sermons before I take a -new charge." - -"Mellowing, salting, sprouting," laughed Judith. - -"Roger, a new charge!" exclaimed Marion, startled. - -"A new charge, my dear sister. I am too small for Bensalem, they need -a bigger man here." - -"But, Roger," remonstrated Judith, with big, distressed eyes; "will -you not give dear, little Bensalem your best?" - -"My very best," he answered, solemnly. - - - - -XXVIII. A NEW ANXIETY. - - - "Our eyes see all around, in gloom or glow, - Hues of their own fresh borrowed from the heart." - - --Keble. - -It was chilly that evening in the old rooms of the house with three -windows in the roof; Roger Kenney's father and mother sat near the -grate in the front parlor; curtains and portieres were dropped, the -piano lamp with its crimson silk shade threw a glow over the two -faces sitting in cosy content opposite each other. The house was -still; the girls, Martha and Lou, and the two boys, Maurice and John, -had gone down town to an illustrated lecture on India; the maid had -her evening out; even Nip, the house-dog, had gone out for an evening -ramble; the two "old people," as in their early sixties they loved to -call each other, were alone with each other and a new anxiety. - -Mr. Kenney told his wife that nothing in the world made her quite so -happy as a new worry, and he wished he could get one for her oftener. - -"This will do for awhile," she remarked; "but this isn't as bad as -that old trouble of Marion's; a man can work himself out; and Roger -has work enough on hand for two worries." - -"Now, what are you going to do about this?" inquired her husband, -folding the evening's paper and laying it upon his knee. "You sent -Marion to Bensalem for her charm; will you get Roger away for his?" - -"That would do no good," she replied, discontentedly, "he would not -be got away in the first place, and Judith is not a fixture in -Bensalem." - -"Judith is worth having," was the complacent reply. - -"That's the worst of it. So was Don Mackenzie." - -"It's the best of it, I think. You wouldn't have your boys and girls -carried away by somebody not worth having." - -"But, then, being disappointed in somebody might help them bear it, -and turn them around to look at somebody else." - -"A disappointment like that is poor consolation." - -"I don't suppose the disappointment _is_ the consolation. The -somebody else is." - -"You never had the consolation of the somebody else." - -"I have only had the consolation of you," she retorted. - -"Marion has never taken up with anybody," he said, reflectively. - -"She has had no chance--" - -"That you know," he interrupted. - -"--That I know," she accepted meekly, "excepting David Prince." - -"She wouldn't look at him." - -"No, she wouldn't. He was younger in the first place--and so different -from Don." - -"I'd like to see that English beauty Don has married." - -"How do you know she is a beauty?" asked Marion's mother, with a -touch of jealousy. - -"Oh, he wrote that to Roger in his first young admiration. An orphan, -living with an uncle, years younger, a capricious beauty, with a -little money; wasn't that the description?" - -"Something like it. Marion has carried herself well about this -marriage." - -"Why shouldn't she? She had nothing to carry herself about." - -"You don't know girls. A memory is a memory." - -"How do _you_ know?" he laughed. - -"But this is not helping us out about Roger," she remarked, ignoring -his words and laugh. - -"Roger will help himself out; he isn't his father's son for nothing." - -"As Marion was not her mother's girl for nothing," was the demure -reply. - -"How do you know--how can you be so certain sure that he wants Judith?" - -"She is the very light of his eyes. She has been for years. A mother -can see. The thought of her is always about him." - -"Does Marion see it?" Roger's father inquired, convinced. He had a -thorough respect for his wife's judgment. - -"No; that's the queer part of it. I think Roger is guarded with her. -He never had a secret from his mother." - -"Young men never have," the young man's father threw in. - -"But I know Roger; I wouldn't be afraid to ask him." - -"Then, why don't you?" - -"Because I know without asking," she silenced him. - -"Now, to come back to the starting point--what do you intend to do -about it?" - -"Bring Judith here," she replied impressively. - -"That's a fine move; an effectual separation." - -"If I could send her anywhere else he would think it his duty to go -and see her, he would have to know how she was doing--pay her bills, -and so forth. There's no one else to be a father to her. Mrs. Brush -leaves everything with him. She has no knowledge of any world outside -of that village." - -"Perhaps she is trying to catch him for Judith." - -"Such a worldly thought would never enter her dear, pretty, simple, -shrewd head. She has her catch, and she didn't catch him with guile. -She would rather keep Judith than set her on the throne of England. -_That's_ out of the question." - -"Well, I do see that point about bringing her here. He can see her -naturally here; nothing to thwart him; she's such a girl, no older -than Martha--you never have any scares about Martha." - -"Martha has never been thrown so with anybody, I wouldn't allow it. I -try to be always on the safe side?" - -"You didn't seem to be on Judith's safe side." - -"I couldn't. Nobody asked me. There she was studying at the -parsonage, before I knew it." - -"She was only a child then." - -"And I thought it such a good outlet for Marion--it was one of the -first things that roused her--that and her Outing Society. My only -fear was that she was taking Judith up for the sake of her Cousin -Don. His influence somehow seems to run through everything. But I -know better now. Judith won her own way. But I didn't know I was -sacrificing Roger to Marion." - -"How could you have hindered?" - -"I could have brought Marion home," she answered, decidedly. - -"And spoiled the good Bensalem was doing for _her_." - -"Oh, dear," with a sigh, "how lives are tangled up." - -"And it's rather dangerous for our fingers to get into the tangle," -he suggested, with mild reproof. - -"But we must do something," she exclaimed, in despair. - -"Well, yes, I suppose so--when the time comes." - -"Well, the time has come now." - -"I don't see anything the matter with Roger. He can walk ten miles on -a stretch, he rides horseback, he cuts his own kindling wood and -makes his own garden, he gives his people two strong sermons a week, -beside the prayer meeting and weekly lectures; he goes hunting with -one of his deacons and talks farming with another; he neglects -nobody, and works like a drum-major. He isn't hurt." - -"But he _will_ be. Judith will refuse him." - -"How do you know that?" - -"Because she has never thought of such a thing." - -"I grant that. Why should she? But she _will_ think of it when he -suggests it." - -"She will not think of it as he does. He is an old fellow to her; let -me see; she was thirteen when she went to Bensalem, and he was--how -queer for me to forget--he was twenty-six, just twice her age." - -"He isn't twice her age now," observed Mr. Kenney, comically. - -"And a woman is always older than a man," Mrs. Kenney, reflected. -"She is nearer his age then, I think, childish as she is. With her -hair up she does look older; it's those blue eyes like a baby, and -that complexion. I told Roger she might sit for a picture of -Priscilla the Puritan maiden, in her new-fashioned, old-fashioned -dress, and he said he had thought of it himself. But, now, Roger," -with a deprecating little appeal, "it will do no _harm_ to bring her -here." - -"Not the least bit in the world," he consented, cheerfully. - - - - -XXIX. JUDITH'S "FUTURE." - - - "God never loved me in so sweet a way before: - 'Tis he alone who can such blessings send: - And when his love would new expression find, - He brought thee to me, and he said, 'Behold--a friend.'" - -Exactly a month from the day Roger planned the Girl Papers for her, -Judith knocked at the study door with her manuscript in her hand. She -had written three papers; if he took sufficient interest in the first -she would read the others. - -Beside the education for herself she had another thought in writing -them; she would send them to some child's paper and earn money. She -knew that Marion had never depended upon the parsonage for money; -every month her father sent her a check; she had no father to send -her a check. No money had come to her from her Cousin Don since his -hurried marriage. Probably he considered her old enough to earn money -for herself. It would be hard to tell Aunt Affy when she needed a -dress, or shoes, or money, when she was not doing anything for Aunt -Affy's comfort. - -Last Sunday she had no money for Sunday-school or church; she had no -money for anything. - -Her last story had been refused, and how she had cried over the -refusal. It was even hard to laugh when Roger told her that Queen -Victoria had sent an article to a paper under a "pen-name" and it had -been "returned with thanks." She wished she were a dressmaker like -Agnes Trembly, or that she could go into a farmer's kitchen, like -Jean Draper's sister Lottie, and earn money and not be ashamed. - -"Come in," called Roger from among his books. - -Her eyes were suspiciously red, she was relieved that his back was -toward her; he wheeled around in his chair as she seated herself, and -looked as though he had nothing in the world to do but listen to her. - -"Have you leisure to hear my Girl Papers?" she asked, with some -embarrassment. "They are horrid. I tried an essay, and failed. It was -stilted and stupid. I can make girls talk, so I threw my garnered -information into a conversation. But you may not care for this style." - -"I can bear anything," he said, making a comical effort at -self-control. - -After the first was read, with an inward quaking, she was delighted -with his word of encouragement: - -"Read the others; I cannot know how bad they are until you read them -all." - -More hopefully she began the second paper, which she read in a clear, -conversational tone:-- - -"Do you know," began grandmother, "who said that she could be happy -anywhere with good health and a bit of marble?" - -And then we were all astir with eager interest. - -"Rosa Bonheur was 'happy anywhere' with canvas, colors, and brush; -and this girl loved marble just as well, and brought breathing life -out of the cold marble, as Rosa brought it out on her canvas. But -Harriet was an American child, born into a luxurious home, with no -brothers or sisters, and her mother soon died and left her alone with -her father. Her mother died with consumption, and her father had -buried his other child besides Harriet with the same disease, so no -wonder he was afraid for his little girl, and determined to give her -a playful childhood in air and sunshine. Harriet Hosmer was born in -Watertown, Mass., October 9th, 1830." - -"And now she's older than you are, grandmother," said Bess. "I like -to know about when grandmothers were little girls." - -"But she and Rosa Bonheur are not grandmothers. They have had canvas -and marble instead of a home with children and grandchildren in it. -As soon as little Harriet was old enough a pet dog was given to her, -and she ornamented it with ribbons and bells. Instead of tin cup and -iron spoon, which Rosa had, she revelled in all the pretty things -that children love. The River Charles ran past her home; her father -gave her a boat and told her to take her air and sunshine on the -water and learn to develop her muscles by the oars. And then he had -built for her a Venetian gondola with velvet cushions and silver prow. - -"'She will be spoiled,' the neighbors foreboded, but her wise father -was not afraid; he knew how much happiness his child could bear and -not be rendered selfish. The next thing to help her become strong was -a gun; she soon became what your brothers would call a good shot. By -and by you will know how strong her hands and arms became and what -she could do with them. All this time, just as you are, girls, these -common days, she was being made ready for her own special work." - -Juliet grew radiant. She was hoping for "special work." - -"Her room was a museum. Gathered and prepared by her own eager and -wise hands she had beetles, snakes, bats, birds, stuffed or preserved -in spirits. From the egg of a sea gull and the body of a kingfisher -she made an ink-stand; she climbed to the top of a tree for a crow's -nest. Miles and miles she learned to walk without being wearied. In -her work and habits and strength she was like a boy. She was fond of -books, but just as fond of the clay-pit in her garden where, to her -father's delight as well as her own, she molded dogs and horses. - -"When Harriet Hosmer was taken to a famous school (at home they -called her 'happy Hatty') the teacher said: 'I have a reputation for -training wild colts; I will try this one.' She stayed three years. On -her return home she began to take lessons in drawing, modeling, and -in anatomical studies, often walking fourteen miles to Boston and -back, with hours of work and study. Was not that a day's work? She -went to the Medical College of St. Louis to take a thorough course in -anatomy." - -"You have to know things to get things out of marble," remarked Ethel. - -"Grandmother, how hard girls can work!" exclaimed Nan, who did not -love work. - -"After she had finished her studies she traveled alone to New -Orleans, and then north to the Falls of St. Anthony, smoking the pipe -of peace with the chief of the Dakota Indians, explored lead mines in -Dubuque, and scaled a high mountain to which her name was afterward -given." - -"That was fun," said Nan. "I'm glad she had some fun with her hard -work." - -"After work in her studio at home her father sent her to Rome. Girl -as she was, in her studio at home she wielded for eight or ten hours -a day a leaden mallet weighing four pounds and a half. And it was -then she told a friend that she would not be homesick, for she could -be happy anywhere with good health and a bit of marble. For seven -years she worked on her 'bit of marble' in Rome. She made beautiful -and wonderful things with her good health and her marble, with hard -work, and the insight into beauty that God, who makes all beautiful -things, gave to this ready and obedient child. - -"The first work she copied for her teacher was the Venus of Milo; -when almost completed the iron, which held the clay firm, snapped, -and all her work was spoiled." - -"Oh!" sighed Ethel. - -"But she did not shriek nor cry herself to sleep (that anybody knew), -but bravely went to work again. Her works were exhibited in Boston -and much admired. Her teacher said he had never seen surpassed her -genius of imitating the roundness and softness of flesh. Look at -other marble statues and see if the flesh looks soft and round like -Harriet's. One of her works, a girl lying asleep, was exhibited in -London and in several American cities. She said once she would work -as though she had to earn her daily bread, and, strange to tell, very -soon after that her father wrote that he had lost his property and -could send her no more money. And then she hired a cheap room, sold -her handsome saddle-horse, and went to work in reality to earn her -daily bread. Her first work, in her time of sorrow, was a fun-loving, -four-year-old child. With the several copies she made from it she -earned for her daily bread thirty thousand dollars." - -"And oh! grandmother," I said (for I am a poor girl myself), "when -our heavenly Father has work for us to do, it doesn't matter whether -we are born poor or rich." - -"Either way it takes hard work," said grandmother. - -With a shy glance into his satisfied face she opened her third paper:-- - -"Children have more need of models than of critics," said -grandmother, "therefore I will give you another model to-night. You -will think I am always choosing for you stories of girls that work; -but where can I find models of any other kind? What do girls amount -to who think only of their own pleasure, and never persevere to the -successful end? Now I will tell you about a girl who came in -womanhood to live in an observatory. This is her home. She is a dear -old lady with white hair, dressed in gray or brown, in rather -Quakerish fashion. She said to the girls she teaches: 'All the -clothing I have on cost but seventeen dollars.' In this unusual home -(she is not a grandmother, either), she keeps the things she loves -best,--her books, her pictures, her astronomical clock, and a bust of -Mary Somerville, of whom I will tell you some time." - -"And then we will remember that her bust is in somebody's observatory -home," said Bess. - -"It is not a wonder that Maria Mitchell has great respect for girls -who do something, and for idle girls none at all. As Juliet was at -Nantucket last summer she will be interested to know that Maria -Mitchell was born in that quiet, delightful place. She was in a home -of ten children. Her mother was a Quaker girl, a descendant of -Benjamin Franklin. Her father was a school teacher. Little Maria went -to school to her father. At school she studied, and with ten little -people at home, what do you think she did? She herself calls her -work, 'endless washing of dishes.' The dishwashing never hindered. I -think it helped. I believe in dishwashing. I wonder what this little -girl would have thought of the dishwasher that some people have in -their kitchens, and is warranted to wash sixty-five dishes (in the -smaller affair) at once, in the soap-sudsy, steamy, crank-turning -space of three blessed minutes. And all dried, too. But in her -observatory she had no need to think of dishwashing. Like Rosa -Bonheur, and Harriet Hosmer, she had a good father and a wise father. -When he was eight years old his father called him to the door to look -at the planet Saturn, and from that time the boy calculated his age -from the position of the planet, year by year." - -"Then it began with her grandfather," said Juliet, who liked to find -the beginnings of things. - -"Her father had a little observatory of his own, on his own land, -that he might study the stars. So it is no marvel that his daughter -is ending her useful days in a big observatory. When Maria went to -her observatory, her father was seventy years of age; he needed her -as nurse and companion, but he said, 'Go, and I will go with you.'" - -"This is the loveliest story of all," exclaimed Grace, who loves her -own old father dearly. - -"For four years her father lived to be proud of her, and enjoyed her -work and her pupils at Vassar College. When Maria was a girl her -father could see no reason why she should not become as well educated -as his boys, so he gave her, as to them, a special drill in -navigation." - -"Grandmother," asked Ethel, "did you know all these little girls when -they were little?" - -"No, darling," said grandmother, "I found out about them in books. -And telling you about the girls is getting you ready to read about -them all the little things the world has a right to know. For they -belong to the whole world. Maria did not learn fancy work. I can -guess what she would say of some girls who care more for fancy -stitches than for studies. She has said, 'A woman might be learning -seven languages while she is learning fancy work.' Still, girls, -educate your fingers, and make your homes pretty and attractive. But -don't let stitches hinder the stars--God has his place for both." - -"Yes, the women worked pretty things for the Tabernacle," I said. -(For I love to make pretty things.) - -"But she did know how to knit, and she knit stockings a yard long for -her father as long as he lived. She studied while she knit, as I used -to do when I was a little girl. When she was a little girl how she -did read! Before she was ten years old she read through Rollin's -_Ancient History_. - -"One night in October, 1847, she was gazing through her telescope, -and what do you think she saw? An unknown comet. She was afraid it -was an old story. Frederick VI., King of Denmark, sixteen years -before, had offered a gold medal to the person who should discover a -telescopic comet. And the little Nantucket girl, who had knitted -stockings a yard long, and washed endless dishes, discovered the -telescopic comet, and to her was awarded the gold medal. And now the -scientific journals announced Miss Mitchell's comet. In England she -was eagerly welcomed by Sir John and Lady Herschel, and Alexander Von -Humboldt took her beside him on a sofa and talked to her about -everybody he knew and everything he knew. And, oh! the other great -people who were glad to see her. She saw in Rome Frederika Bremer, of -whose comical, interesting, sad girlhood I must tell you some day. -But I musn't forget the little house Maria bought for her father -before she went to the observatory of Vassar College. It cost sixteen -hundred and fifty dollars, and she saved the money out of her yearly -salary of one hundred dollars, and what she could earn in government -work." - -"I don't think I mind washing dishes so much now," declared Nan. - -And we all laughed. - -"Good," exclaimed Judith's listener. "Keep on with the dozen, and -salt them down. _When I Was a Boy_ series will be a good thing for -you. Judith, honest, now, would you rather go away to school this -winter, or read and write with Marion and me?" - -"Study with you," was the quick decision; "I can think of nothing in -the world I would like so well." - -"Then that is settled," he replied with satisfaction; "I feared you -would be restless. You are at the frisky and restless age. Marion was -sure you would not be." - -"But--" Judith hesitated and colored painfully, "if I am to teach by -and by, would it be better for me to go to school? I can borrow the -money and then earn it by teaching and repay Aunt Affy." - -"We are not making a teacher of you; we are making an educated woman--" - -"But, Roger," she persisted, "unless I go back to Aunt Affy I must -support myself. I am not willing to be dependent upon any one except -Aunt Affy." - -"Upon whom are you dependent now? Are you not earning your board by -being co-operative housekeeper?" - -"If you and Marion think so." - -"Ask Marion." - -"But I would like to ask you, too?" - -"I thought my little sister had more delicacy of feeling than to ask -such a question." - -"Roger, don't be a goose," she said, indignantly, "that was all very -well when I was a child. You forget that I am grown up." - -"You will not let me forget it." - -"I wish you not to forget it. In the spring, on my nineteenth -birthday, I shall decide upon my future. Just think, I have a -future," she laughed. "I am only too glad of the study and music this -winter. Then I shall go out into the world, or go back to Aunt Affy. -I do not mean to be too proud--" with a quiver of the lip. - -"Only just proud enough. You are exactly that. Let us live in peace -this winter, and then your nineteenth birthday may do its worst for -us all." - -"You will not be serious," she answered, with vexed tears; "my life -is a great deal to me." - -"It is a great deal to us all, dear. Work and be patient, and you -will have as happy an ending as any story you write." - -"My children end as children," she said, with a quick laugh. "I -shouldn't know what to do with them if they grew up." - -"There is One who does know what to do with his children when they -grow up," said Roger, bending as he stood beside her and touching her -lips with his own. It was the first time he had ever kissed her. She -took the kiss as gravely and simply as it was given. Something was -sealed between them. She would never be proud with him again. - -"I will not kiss you again," said Roger to himself, "until you -promise to be my wife." - -That afternoon Roger asked Marion to drive to Meadow Centre. - -"I am glad you did not ask Judith," replied Marion, with something in -her voice. - -"Why not?" he asked, indignantly, "why shouldn't I ask Judith to -drive with me?" - -"My point was not driving with you, but driving to Meadow Centre." - -"I confess I do not understand you." - -"I knew you didn't. Men are blind creatures." - -"Then open the eyes of one blind creature." - -"Haven't you seen that Mr. King is interested in Judith?" she asked, -somewhat impatiently. - -"We are all interested in Judith." - -"Not just as _he_ is. You are not," looking straight into his frank, -smiling eyes. - -"You don't mean--" - -"Yes, I do mean--" - -"What about _her_?" he asked with the color hot in his face. But -Marion was a "blind creature" then and did not see. - -"I don't know about her. She isn't grown up enough to think. But I -know he is wonderfully attractive to her." - -"He's a good fellow. I will not stand in his way." - -"For pity's sake, Roger, don't think you must do anything," cried -Marion, dismayed; "let her alone. He will take care of himself." - -"I shall certainly let her alone. He is so artless that he will be -taken care of. It is like him to stumble into the best thing in the -universe and then wonder how he ever got it." - -"I hope you don't call Meadow Centre one of the best things," -retorted Marion. - -"It's a good place for a man to make something of himself; he is -writing sermons that will make a stir somewhere. Meadow Centre is to -him what Paul's three years in Arabia were to him." - -"Then we must do our best to make Judith ready--" - -"What a plotter you are," he exclaimed, angrily; then, more quietly: -"But we will make Judith ready," and he walked off with a laugh that -was a mixture of things. - -This day, in which God's daily bread and his daily will were given to -Judith as upon all the other days, was one of the very happiest days -of her happy life. - -Roger's kiss gave her an undefined sense of safety and protection; if -she were not wise enough to decide when the time came she would take -refuge in that safety and protection, and--another kiss. - -That evening Joe came for her, saying Aunt Rody was worse. She went -home with him, and "watched" with Aunt Affy, until poor Aunt Rody -passed away from the home she had toiled so unceasingly for and taken -so little comfort in. One week she stayed with Aunt Affy: "I miss her -so," wept Aunt Affy broken-heartedly; "I never was in the world -without her before." - -"I suppose we musn't keep you, Judith," Uncle Cephas remarked one -evening behind his newspaper. - -"Not yet," said Judith. "I want to be as busy as a bee this winter to -get ready for something." - -"Then we will have to adopt Joe; we must have some young thing about -the house." - -Judith's first words to Roger and Marion as they went out to welcome -her on the piazza were in a burst: "I do think those two old people -growing old together is the loveliest thing I ever saw." - -"How young must two people begin to grow old together?" inquired -Roger, comically. - -"As soon as they think about growing old," said Marion. - -"Then I will not begin to think until my birthday," said Judith. -"Marion, I am too happy in having two homes. Some better girl than I -should have them." - -"You forget your third home in England," remarked Roger, seriously. - -"Oh, poor Don. Roger, I am afraid Don isn't happy," she said, with -slow emphasis. - -What Roger thought he did not say. - -Don's letters were brief, constrained; Judith's letter to her "new, -dear Cousin Florence" had met with no response--that Judith knew. - - - - -XXX. A TALK AND WHAT CAME OF IT. - - - "There is nothing which faith does not overcome; nothing - which it will not accept." - - --Bishop Huntington. - -"Roger," began Judith, doubtfully. - -"Begin again, I don't like that tone." - -"I was afraid you were thinking--" - -"I should be sorry not to be." - -"I was afraid you were thinking too deeply to be disturbed." - -"Then I shouldn't _be_ disturbed; my mind would be absent from my ear -and I should not hear that doubtful appeal. The _doubt_ is what I -object to." - -Marion and her mother had not returned from their drive to Meadow -Centre, where Mrs. Kenney had a school friend. They intended to -"spend an old-fashioned day," Mrs. Kenney remarked at the breakfast -table; it was five o'clock in the November afternoon and the -old-fashioned day was not yet ended. - -Judith and her fancy work, covers for Nettie's bureau, had taken -possession of the light in the bay window; as the light faded, she -sat thinking with her work in her lap. Roger entered and threw -himself upon the lounge, clasping his hands above his head; his -thinking was weaving itself in and out of a suggestion of his -mother's that she should take Judith home for the winter. - -To the suggestion he had replied nothing at all. - -"Then the doubt is gone," answered Judith, brightly. "I do not know -how to put my thought." - -"Isn't that rather a new experience?" - -"It is the experience of every day," she answered, unmindful of his -teasing. "I wonder why God keeps us so much in the dark." - -"Perhaps we keep ourselves in the dark." - -"That is what I wanted to know." - -"Can you tell me exactly what you mean? Are you in the dark about -anything?" - -"About everything," she exclaimed with such energy that his only -reply was a laugh. - -"Just now I mean one special thing that I cannot tell you about." - -"O, Judith, are you growing up to have secrets?" he groaned. - -"I am growing up _with_ secrets. Aunt Rody used to exasperate me by -telling me I would 'outgrow' something, when all the time I knew I -was growing into something." - -"Growing into a new thing is the best way to outgrow an old thing." - -"Then I am satisfied about something." - -Roger wished that he could be--about something. - -"I wish I could tell you. But I don't know why I shouldn't. I'm -afraid Marion doesn't care for Mr. King, and I want her to so much." - -In the twilight she could not see the illumination in the face across -the room on the lounge. - -He was satisfied about something. - -"What are you getting down into?" he asked jubilantly. - -"Why," pricking her work with her needle, "I think he--cares a great -deal, and he is so splendid that I want her to care. How they would -work together. Bensalem has been getting her ready." - -"Well, I declare!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. - -"Are you displeased?" - -"There's nothing to be displeased about. Is this the way girls plot -against each other? No wonder we men have to tread softly." - -"It isn't plotting exactly. It's only hoping." - -"Is that your secret?" - -"Yes, and don't you tell," she said, alarmed. - -"No; it shall be my secret; yours and mine. Now what are we going to -do about it?" - -"We cannot do anything. She admires him around the edges, somehow. -And he's as shy of her as he can be. I seem to be always interpreting -them to each other." - -He laughed, greatly amused. - -"In spite of my selecting the most innocent love-stories for you, you -have grown up to the depth, or height, of this. I'll never dare put a -finger in a girl's education again." - -"But, Roger--" - -"Don't ask me to help you out." - -"Marion will not. She doesn't seem to understand anything." - -"No wonder," thought Roger, remembering her early experience; "she -has been a burnt child; she'll never play with that kind of fire -again." - -Aloud he replied: "She needs a wise head like yours. What would you -advise her to do?" - -"To be _natural_; just her own self, and she isn't. I believe she's -afraid." - -"So will you be when you are as old as she is." - -"I don't know what to be afraid of." - -"May you never know. Is that all you are in the dark about?" he -questioned, seating himself in his study chair, and wheeling around -to face the girl in the bay window. - -A girl in blue, as she was when she sat in the bay window in Summer -Avenue and wrote letters to Aunt Affy; the same trustful eyes, loving -mouth, and yellow head. - -Now, as then, she did not know what to be afraid of. It was only this -last month that she had brought her questions to Roger. Marion had -not grown ahead of her to answer her. And Aunt Affy had been so -absorbed in Aunt Rody this last year that she had feared to trouble -her with questions. - -"I have a book-full of questions laid up for you; rather the answers -would be a book-full. Life seems full of questions. There's always -something to ask about everything I read." - -"Ask the next book." - -"The next book doesn't always know." - -"The next person may not always know." - -"I can easily find out," she laughed. - -Then she became grave, and, after a moment's silence, said: "I wish I -knew why we couldn't have _an idea_, as we pray a long time for -something, whether it were going to be given us or not." - -"Something that you have no special promise for?" - -"Yes; something in the 'what-so-ever.' It does seem so hard to have -it grow darker and harder, and not to know whether you may keep on or -not; whether giving up would be in faith--or despair." - -"Judith, you've touched a sensitive point in many a heart that keeps -on praying." - -"Do _you_ know?" she asked. - -"I can tell you a story." - -His story was all she desired. - -"You know when Jairus came to the Lord to plead for his daughter, he -fell at his feet and besought him greatly, saying: 'My little -daughter lieth at the point of death.' Then Jesus went with him. We -do not know what he said, but he went with him. Then, as they went -together, the crowd came to a stand-still that the Lord might perform -a miracle and answer the prayer of a touch. But, by this time, Jesus -had been so long on the way that news came of the death of the little -daughter. It was too late. She was dead. They said to the father: -'Why troublest thou the Master any further?' He might as well go home -to his dead child, the Master had not cared to hasten--this woman was -not at the point of death, she might have been healed another day. -But think of the comfort: _as soon as_ Jesus heard the message, he -said to the father: 'Be not afraid; only believe.' Is he not saying -that every hour to us who are fainting because he is so long on the -way?" - -"Yes," said Judith, "but he did not _say_ he would raise her from the -dead. Perhaps the ruler did not know he had power to raise from the -dead." - -"No; he only said: Be not afraid: only believe. Is not that assurance -enough for you?" - -"Now, don't think I am dreadfully wicked, but I know I am; I want him -to say: 'Be not afraid, I know she is dead, but I have power enough -for that; believe I can do _that_. He did not tell him _what_ to -believe." - -"He told him to believe in the sympathy and power that had just -healed this woman who had been incurable twelve years, all the years -his daughter had been living." - -"But," persisted Judith, "he might believe that, for he had just seen -it; but to raise from the dead was beyond everything he had seen, and -Christ gave him no promise for that." - -"Perhaps he believed that the Master had power in reserve--he surely -knew he was going to his house for something--he did not bid him -believe, and then turn back; he went on with him to his house." - -"Now you have said what I wanted. It was the _going on with him_ that -kept up his faith. As long as Jesus kept on going his way he couldn't -but believe. He gave him something even better than his word to -believe in. I shouldn't think he would be afraid of anything then." - -"Then don't you be afraid of anything. Not until the Master turns and -goes the other way." - -"He will never do that," Judith said to herself. - -The clock on the mantel struck the half hour: half-past five. Judith -rolled up her work and went out to the kitchen. The tea kettle was -singing on the range; everything was ready for the supper, biscuits -and cake of her own making, jelly and fruit that she and Marion had -put up together in the long summer days, to which she would add an -omelet and creamed potatoes, for Roger was always hungry after a -walk, and then coffee, for Mrs. Kenney would like coffee after her -drive. - -"I don't mind now if my prayers do get stopped in the middle," she -thought as she arranged the pretty cups and saucers on the supper -table, "if Jesus goes all the way with me--he will take care of the -rest of it, and next year--if something _dies_ this year, he can bring -it to life next year. If He wants to; _and I don't want Him to, if He -doesn't want to_." - -Roger came out into the kitchen to watch her as she moved about, and, -to his own surprise, found himself asking her the question he had -intended not to ask at all. - -"Would you like to go back home with mother for the winter? You may -have a music teacher, you have had none but Marion, and take lessons -in anything and everything. Mother would like it very much," he said, -noting the gladness and gratitude in her face; "Martha will take your -place here with Marion." - -"Oh, yes, I _would_ like it," she answered, doubtfully. "Did she -propose it?" - -"Yes." - -"You are sure you didn't suggest it, even," she questioned, still -doubtfully. - -"I am not unselfish enough for that," he answered, dryly. - -"But who would pay for it?" she questioned, with a flush of shame. -"No; I will not go--until I earn money myself." - -"A letter came last night from your Cousin Don--I really believe I -forgot to tell you--perhaps I was jealous of his right to spend money -for you. He asked me to decide what would be best for you, from my -knowledge of yourself, and said any amount would be forthcoming that -your plans needed. His heart is in his native land still. He will -never come home to stay as long as his wife"--"lives" in his thought -was instantly changed to "objects" upon his lips. - -"So you would really like to go back to city life?" - -"Yes," said Judith with slow decision. - -Why should she not go home with John Kenney's mother, she argued, as -she stood silent before Roger. He was studying medicine in New York; -he had written her once, only once, and then to tell her that he had -decided upon the medical course: "If I cannot have something else I -want I will have _this_. Life has got to have something for me." - -A week later Lottie Kindare had written one of her infrequent -letters; the burden of the letter seemed to be a twenty-mile drive -with John Kenney and an engagement to go to see pictures with him. - -"I have always liked John, you know--John with the crimson name." She -was glad of both letters; they both revealed something she had no -other way of learning. She had not hurt John beyond recovery, and -Lottie would have something she wished for most. - -"Don will be glad to take the responsibility of you. You give him -another reason for staying alive." - -"Hasn't he reasons enough--without me?" - -"He ought to have," was the serious reply. "Everybody should have, -excepting yourself." - -"Myself appears to be the chief reason to me." - -"Take as much time as you like to decide--and remember, you go of your -own free will." - -"Roger, you know it isn't that I choose to _go_--" she began, -earnestly. - -"Oh, no," he said, as he turned away, "not Caesar less, but Rome -more." - -He went into the study and shut the door. - -"The child, the child," he groaned, "she has no more thought of me -than--Uncle Cephas." - -When his mother and sister returned, and the supper bell rang, he -opened the door to say to Marion that he would have no supper, he had -work to do. - -"Yes," he thought grimly, "I _have_ work to do--to fight myself into -shape." - - - - -XXXI. ABOUT WOMEN. - - - "Like a blind spinner in the sun, - I tread my days; - I know that all the threads will run - Appointed ways; - I know each day will bring its task, - And, being blind, no more I ask." - - --H. H. - -"I wish you would tell Judith Mackenzie all you know about women's -doings," said Jean Draper Prince one morning late in November. - -"I am ready to give the Bensalem girls a lecture upon what women -outside of Bensalem are doing," said the lady in the bamboo rocker -with her knitting. "All the ambitious girls, all the discouraged -girls." - -The bamboo rocker was Jean's wedding present from Judith Mackenzie; -Jean had told Mrs. Lane that the broad blue ribbon bow tied upon it -was exactly the color of Judith's eyes. - -Mrs. Lane had not visited Bensalem since the summer she gave Jean -Draper the inspiration of her outing; but many letters had kept alive -her interest in the Bensalem girl, and kept growing the love and -admiration of the village girl for the lady who lived in the world -and knew all about it. - -Jean said her loveliest wedding present was the week Mrs. Lane came -to Bensalem to give to her. The loveliest wedding present was shared -with Judith Mackenzie. - -Jean's husband was the village blacksmith; his new, pretty house was -next door to his shop. It was not all paid for, and Jean was helping -to pay for it by saving all the money she could out of her -housekeeping. If she only might earn money, she sighed, but her -husband laughed at the idea, saying his two strong hands were to be -forever at her service. - -The small parlor was in its usual pretty order; in the sitting-room -were a flower stand, and a canary's cage; Mrs. Lane preferred the -sitting-room, but with her instinct that "company" should have the -best room, Jean had urged her into the parlor, drawing down the -shades a little that the sunlight should not fade the roses in the -new carpet. - -"Judith is the craziest girl about doing things," replied Jean; "she -is ambitious, and she thinks she must earn money. I told her you -wrote for a paper that was full of business for women, and could tell -her what to do." - -"What does she wish to do?" - -"Study, and write--she writes the dearest little stories,--or anything -else, if she cannot do that. She has _ideas_," said Jean, gravely; -"she is a rusher into new things. I wish she would be married and -have a nice little home and care how the bread rises and the pudding -comes out of the oven." - -"Isn't she interested in housekeeping?" - -"Oh, yes. But it is Miss Marion's. Not her own. It is the _own_ that -makes the difference," replied the girl-wife contentedly, nodding and -smiling out the window to the man in shirt-sleeves and leather apron -who stood in the doorway of the shop talking to the minister on -horseback. - -How could she ever tell Judith that Bensalem was gossiping about her -staying at the parsonage? - -"Your work is your own; it comes to be your own, whatever it is. -Every girl cannot marry a blacksmith, Jean, and have a small home of -her own." - -"I know it. I wish they could. What I wish most for Judith is for her -to go back to Aunt Affy's." - -That afternoon as the three sat together in the blacksmith's parlor, -Jean with towels she was hemming for her mother, and the other two -with idle hands and work upon their laps, Jean suddenly asked Mrs. -Lane to tell them about women and their doings. - -"As I waited in the station for my train the day I came here," began -Mrs. Lane in the conversational tone of one prepared for a long talk, -"a lady sat near me, also waiting, with a bag in her hand. I had a -bag in my hand, but there was nothing unusual in mine; she told me -she was going to Dunellen to take care of ladies' finger-nails. She -had a good business in Dunellen and the suburbs in summer, when the -people were in their country homes; there were a few ladies who -expected her that day." - -"I wouldn't like to do that," declared Jean, "although I would do -almost anything to pay off our mortgage." - -"In Buffalo is a woman who runs a street-cleaning bureau; in Kansas -City a woman is at the head of a fire department." - -"Worse and worse," laughed Jean. - -"A Louisville lady makes shopping trips to Paris." - -"Splendid," exclaimed Jean, who still dreamed of outings. - -"A lady in New York makes flat-furnishing a business." - -"That is making a home for other people," said Jean. - -"But her own at the same time," answered Judith. - -"New Hampshire has a woman president of a street railway company; and -in Chicago is a woman who embalms--" - -"Dead people," interrupted Jean; "oh, dear me!" - -"The world is learning the resources of the nineteenth century woman. -A Swiss woman has invented a watch for the blind. The hours on the -dial are indicated by pegs, which sink in, one every hour." - -"That is worth doing," observed Judith; "I want to do real work. I -know I do not mean my work to end with myself." - -"Lady Somebody has classified her husband's books, with a -catalogue--his papers fill five rooms; think of the work before her." - -"But that is not for herself," demurred Judith. - -"I believe Judith would like to be famous," said Jean with a laugh. -"Bensalem is such a little spot to her." - -"A lady is about to translate King Oscar of Sweden's works into -English; would you like to do that, Judith?" asked Mrs. Lane, who -felt that she had been a friend of Judith MacKenzie's ever since Jean -Draper had known her and written of their girlhood together. - -"Not exactly that," said Judith. - -"The first woman rabbi in the world is in California. She has been -trained in a Hebrew College; Rabbi Moses, the celebrated Jewish -divine in Chicago, urges her to take a congregation." - -"Then how can the men give thanks in their prayers that they are not -born women?" asked Judith quickly. - -"Do the Jews do that?" inquired Jean. - -"Yes. But I don't believe old Moses did, or this Rabbi Moses," said -Judith. - -"A lady has received the degree of electrical engineer," continued -Mrs. Lane, who appeared to both her listeners to be a Cyclopedia of -Information Concerning Women. - -"Judith doesn't mean such things," explained Jean; "I don't believe -she wants David to teach her to be a blacksmith. But there is a woman -in Dunellen who has a sick husband, and she is doing his work in the -butcher's shop." - -"Would you rather go to Washington, that city of opportunities for -girls? The government offices are filled with women, and young women. -Those who pass the civil service examination must be over twenty. -Many states of the Union are represented. As the departments close at -four in the afternoon, some of the girls take time for other -employments, or for study. One I read of attends medical lectures at -night. Some, who love study, belong to the Chautauqua Circle. French -women, as a rule, have a good business education. In the common -schools they are taught household bookkeeping. The French woman is -expected to help her husband in his business." - -"Not if he is a blacksmith," interjects the blacksmith's wife. - -"Harper has published a series called the Distaff Series: all the -mechanical work, type-setting, printing, binding, covering, and -designing was all done by women." - -"I think I would rather make the inside of a book," said Judith. "But -think of the women that do that and every kind of a book." - -"A lady took the four hundred dollar prize mathematical scholarship -at Cornell University. There were twelve applicants; nine were women." - -"That is _hard_ work," acknowledged Judith, to whom Arithmetic and -Algebra were never a success. She had even shed tears over Geometry, -and how Roger had laughed at her. - -"There's a lady on Long Island who has a farm of five hundred acres; -they call the farm, 'Old Brick.'" - -"Horrid name," interrupted Jean, turning carefully the narrow hem of -the coarse towel. - -"It was a dairy farm, but she found milk not profitable enough, and -gave it up and made a study of live stock. She has made a reputation -as a stock raiser; she raises trotters and road horses," said Mrs. -Lane, watching the effect of her words upon Judith. - -Judith colored and looked displeased. Was this all Mrs. Lane, Jean's -ideal lady, had to tell her of women's brave work? - -"In Italy nearly two millions of women are employed in industrial -pursuits, cotton, silk, linen, and jute. Three million women are busy -in agriculture. You might try agriculture here in Bensalem." - -"What do their homes do?" inquired Jean, the home-maker. - -"Oh, they do woman's work, beside." - -"It is all woman's work, I suppose, if women do it," answered Judith, -discouraged. - -"Judith, who is the sweetest woman you know?" asked Mrs. Lane, -touched by the droop of the girl's head and the trouble in her eyes. - -"I know ever so many. No one could be sweeter than my mother. And my -Aunt Affy is strong and sweet, and doing good to everybody. And Mrs. -Kenney, Marion's mother, she is _in_ things, busy and bright always." - -"I have told you some things women may do; now I'll tell you some -things a woman--one woman--may not do. She cannot do--is not allowed to -do--some things a washer-woman in Bensalem may do--But I'll read you -the slip; I have it in my pocket-book." - -She took the cutting from her pocket-book and asked Judith to read it -aloud. - -Judith read: "Queen Victoria, not being born a queen, probably -learned to read just like other persons. But after she became -afflicted with royalty she found that a queen is not allowed to have -a great many privileges that the humblest of her subjects can boast. -For instance, she isn't allowed to handle a newspaper of any kind, -nor a magazine, nor a letter from any person except from her own -family, and no member of the royal family or household is allowed to -speak to her of any piece of news in any publication. All the -information the queen is permitted must first be strained through the -intellect of a man whose business it is to cut out from the papers -each day what he thinks she would like to know. These scraps he -fastens on a silken sheet with a gold fringe all about it, and -presents to her unfortunate majesty. This silken sheet with gold -fringe is imperative for all communications to the queen. - -"Any one who wishes to send the queen a personal poem or a -communication of any kind (except a personal letter, which the poor -lady isn't allowed to have at all) must have it printed in gold -letters on one side of these silk sheets with a gold fringe, just so -many inches wide and no wider, all about it. These gold trimmings -will be returned to him in time, as they are expensive, and the queen -is kindly and thrifty; but for the queen's presents they are -imperative. The deprivations of the queen's life are pathetically -illustrated by an incident which occurred not long ago. An American -lad sent her majesty an immense collection of the flowers of this -country, pressed and mounted. The queen was delighted with the -collection and kept it for three months, turning over the leaves -frequently with great delight. At the end of that time, which was as -long as she was allowed by the court etiquette to keep it, she had it -sent back with a letter saying that, being queen of England, she was -not allowed to have any gifts, and that she parted from them with -deep regret." - -"Well," exclaimed Jean, with an energy that brought a laugh from her -small audience, "I would rather be the Bensalem blacksmith's wife." - -"I wish I could take this to Nettie," said Judith; "she thinks -sometimes she would like to be a queen." - -"She is, in her small province," replied Mrs. Lane. "I have something -for her; I think I can help her step out into as wide a world as she -cares to live in. No; don't ask me; it is to be her secret and my -own. Now, Judith, tell me, what is the secret of the happy and useful -lives you know?" - -"I don't know," replied Judith, truthfully. "But they are all -married. I am thinking of girls--like me. Their work came to them." - -"As mine did," said Jean, contentedly, with a glance from her work -out the window where the blacksmith was shoeing a horse. - -"Your Aunt Affy was not married--" - -"No, she was not. She had her work. It was in her home. She was born -among her work. But I have not a home like that," Judith answered in -short, sharp sentences. - -"Why, Judith," reproached Jean, "what would Aunt Affy say to that?" - -"It would hurt her. She would look sorry. I do not know what gets -into me, sometimes. She would adopt me and be like my own mother." - -"Do you resist such a sweet mothering as that?" rebuked Mrs. Lane. "I -think I lost some of the sermon Sunday morning by looking at her -face." - -"I do not mean to _resist_ her," said Judith, not able to keep the -tears back. - -"She told mother her heart ached to have you back," persuaded Jean, -"since her sister died she had so longed for her little girl." - -"I'm afraid I am not doing right," confessed Judith, "but I was -almost homesick there, when Aunt Rody was sick. And then, I think I -_must_ learn to support myself, and not be dependent." - -"Oh, you American girl," said Mrs. Lane. - -"And with Aunt Affy for your _mother_," added Jean; "I told Mrs. Lane -you had ideas." - -"I should think I had," said Judith, laughing to keep the tears back. -"I'm afraid I've forgotten Aunt Affy. She loves two people in me, she -says; my mother and me. I don't know what _has_ possessed me." - -"Ambition, perhaps," Mrs. Lane suggested, taking up her knitting,--a -long black stocking for her only grandchild. - -"Not just that," Judith reasoned; "it is more making something of -myself for myself. Culture for its own sake," she quoted from Roger, -who had warned her against her devotion to self-culture; "and I give -it a self-sacrificing name; the desire to be independent. I do not -know why I should _not_ be dependent on Aunt Affy. My mother was--and -loved it." - -"No service could be more acceptable than serving her," said Mrs. -Lane; "the world is only a larger Bensalem." - -"It isn't the _world_ I wanted," replied Judith, impatiently. - -When Judith went away Jean walked down the street with her. "Are you -disappointed in Mrs. Lane?" she asked. - -"She did not tell me what I hoped and expected. She told me something -better. I think I can study at Aunt Affy's," in the tone of one -having made a sacrifice. - -"And go to the parsonage every day," said Jean eagerly, and yet -afraid of pressing her point. - -"Yes--if I wish to," replied Judith slowly, surprising herself by -coming to a decision. - -"Bensalem is such a place for talk," Jean ventured, not that she was -confident of success. "Everybody knows everybody's business and is -interested in it." - -"But it is kindly talk," said Judith, whom gossip had touched lightly. - -"Yes, sometimes--not always," Jean hesitated; "people will misjudge." - -"Jean Draper, what do you mean?" asked Judith, blazing angrily; "are -you trying to tell me something?" - -"No," replied Jean, startled at Judith's unusual vehemence. "I only -want you to understand that Aunt Affy is talked about for letting you -stay so much at the parsonage." - -"How could it hurt anybody?" - -"They say Aunt Affy is--scheming," she said, watching the effect of -her words. - -"Scheming. What about? What does _she_ gain?" asked Judith, provoked. - -"The gain is for you," said Jean, at last, desperately; "they say she -wants to marry you to the minister." - -Now she had said it. She stood still, frightened. Judith left her -without another word, going straight on to the parsonage. After a -moment Jean turned and went home. - -What would Judith do? She looked angry enough to do anything. But she -had shielded her from further talk. Bensalem should have no more to -say. - -Judith went on dazed. Now she understood it all; Martha was coming -that she might go; they did not like to tell her to go; they were all -too kind. As if Aunt Affy could plot like that. As if Aunt Affy cared -for that: Aunt Affy who wanted to keep her always. - -Had Marion heard the talk? And Roger? Was he glad to send her away -with his mother? She would fly to Aunt Affy that very night; the old -house would be her refuge. She would go back to Aunt Affy--and her -mother's home. Roger, her saint, her hero, her ideal--he could never -think of her--like that. - -She opened the door and went in. Marion had taken her mother for a -drive. The study door was shut, the usual signal when Roger was busy. -But she often ventured; the shut door had never barred her out. -Nothing had ever kept her away from Roger. She tapped; Roger called: -"Come in." - -He was writing and did not lift his eyes. - -She waited; he looked up and smiled. - -"Can you stop one minute?" she asked, faintly. - -"One and a half." - -"I came to tell you that I have thought it over; I would rather not -go home with Mrs. Kenney." - -"Stay then, with all my heart." - -"But not with all my heart. I am going to Aunt Affy's instead. She -wants me," she said, quietly, with a quiver of the lip. - -"I should think she would." - -"I did not know how much. She herself would not tell me. Jean Draper -told me. Aunt Affy told her mother." - -"That will not change our plans of study at all." - -"No; it need not." - -"It shall not." - -"I think I can get on alone awhile. You have taught me how to use -books. You have shown me that they are tools. I can write by myself. -You have been to me like Maria Edgeworth's father. Perhaps it is time -for Maria to stand alone." - -"You are tired of my teaching." - -"Oh, no; I am not tired of anything--excepting Bensalem. I _hate_ -Bensalem," she burst out with anger and contrition. - -"What has Bensalem done now?" - -"Nothing unusual. Will you tell Marion I am going--home to stay -to-night? Martha will come and help her in the housekeeping." - -"Judith, has any one hurt you?" - -"No," said Judith, smiling with the tears starting; "you are all too -kind." - -"Is it for Aunt Affy you are going? Judith, you cannot deceive me." - -"No; I do not think I can. I am going for Aunt Affy's sake, Roger." - -"Because she misses you?" - -"Yes, because she misses me, and needs me. People think and say--she -is not taking good care of me. I wish to prove to them that she is." - -"That is sheer nonsense," he exclaimed, angrily. - -"It is not nonsense that she misses me now that her sister is gone. I -never had any sister excepting Marion, but I know it was dreadful for -Aunt Affy to lose her sister. If you haven't helped me to study -alone, to depend upon myself, you have been very little help to me." - -"That is true," he laughed, "but the studying is only a part of what -the parsonage is to you." - -"It was my reason for coming, and staying," she said, simply, -flushing and trembling. - -"True; I had forgotten that. Yes; it is better for you to go; best -for you to go. Come to-morrow and talk it over to Marion and my -mother. I will tell them only that you have gone--home, to spend the -night." - -He took up his pen, it trembled in his grasp; Judith went out and -shut the door that he might not be disturbed. - -"I am giving it all up," she thought, as she pressed a few things -into a satchel; "all I was going away to get; perhaps _this_ is the -way my prayer for work is being answered." - -They were at supper when she stood in the doorway; Aunt Affy at the -head of the table behind the tea-pot and the cups and saucers; her -husband opposite her, genial, handsome, satisfied, and Joe, at one -side of the round table, tall, fine-looking, with his gray, -thoughtful eyes, refined lips, and modest manner. Joe was a son to be -proud of, the old people sometimes said to each other. - -There was no chair opposite Joe, no plate, and knife and fork and -napkin. Uncle Cephas liked a hot supper; they had chicken stew -to-night, and boiled rice. It was like home, the faces, the things on -the supper-table. She was homesick enough to long for some place -"like" home. The parsonage could never be her home again, with Martha -in her place; perhaps Martha had been wishing to come for years; -perhaps her selfishness had kept Martha away. - -John would be married, Martha would be in her place at the -parsonage,--Don was too far away to know, and too absorbed in his wife -to care; Mrs. Kenney did not really _want_ her, she had only asked -her to go home with her to get her away from the parsonage; the only -home she had a _right_ to was this home where her mother had been a -little girl. - -"Why, Judith," cried Aunt Affy, rising, "dear child, what is the -matter?" - -"I wanted to come home," said Judith. - - - - -XXXII. AUNT AFFY'S PICTURE. - - - "That only which we have within can we see without." - - --Emerson. - -Judith stood at the sitting-room window looking out into the March -snow-storm. There had been many snow-storms since that November night -she came to the threshold and stood looking in at the happy -supper-table. Aunt Affy had opened her arms and heart anew and folded -her close: "My lamb has come back," she said. - -"To stay back," Judith whispered, hiding her face on Aunt Affy's -shoulder. - -That night was nearly two years ago; she would be twenty in April. -She was not "twenty in April" to Aunt Affy; she was still her "lamb" -and her "little girl." - -In her dark blue cloth dress, and with her yellow head and -rose-tinted cheeks, she did not look as grown-up as she felt; she had -taken life, not only with both hands, but with heart, brain, and -spirit, and with all her might. There was nothing in her that she had -not put into her life; her simple, Bensalem life. - -"Aunt Affy," she said, as Aunt Affy's step paused on the threshold -between kitchen and sitting-room, "Come and rest awhile in this -fire-light. This fire on the hearth to-night reminds me of the glow -of the grate in Summer Avenue when I used to tell pictures to mother." - -Aunt Affy pulled down the shades; Judith drew Aunt Affy's chair to -the home-made rug--Aunt Rody's rug,--to the hearth, and then sat down -on the hassock at her feet, and looked into the fire, not the -curly-headed girl in Summer Avenue, but the girl grown up. - -"Aunt Affy, tell _me_ a picture," she coaxed. - -"What about?" - -"About myself. I'm afraid I am too full of myself. I cannot -understand something. I can tell you about it, for it is past, and I -can look at it as something in the past. You know those years I was -at the parsonage, at my boarding-school, I was crammed full with one -hope." - -Judith was looking at the fire; the eyes looking down at her were -solicitous, tender. She had been afraid Judith "cared too much" for -the young minister; but it must be over now, or she could not tell -her about it so frankly. - -"I dreamed it, I studied it, I wrote it, I prayed about it, I -_breathed_ it." - -"Oh," said Aunt Affy, with a quick, heavy sigh. - -"Don't pity me. It was good for me, blessed for me, or it could not -have happened, you know. I thought there was some great work for me -to do--" - -"Oh," said Aunt Affy, with a quick, relieved cry. - -"I was not sure whether it were to write a book, or to teach, or to -go as a foreign missionary; I think I hoped it would be the foreign -missionary, because that was the most self-sacrificing. The book was -all one great joy. The teaching was absorbing, but I must go away to -study. I was afraid to go away, I did not like to go away from -Bensalem, I would miss my mother away from Bensalem, and you, and all -the parsonage, and the whole village. But I thought I was called; as -called as Roger was to preach, or any woman, saint, or heroine, who -had done a great thing. You cannot think what it was to me. It made -me old. I wanted God to speak out of Heaven and tell me what to do. -It began to lose its selfishness, after that. The first thing that -began to shake my confidence was something Mrs. Lane said that -afternoon she talked to Jean and me about what women were doing and -could do. She did not make woman's work attractive; she took the -heart out of me. I did not know why she should do that. I knew better -all the time. I knew what women had done and were doing. I knew she -was doing a noble work, literary work, work in prisons, temperance -work; the instances she gave me seemed trivial, as if she were -laughing at me. But something opened my eyes; I felt that I might be -disobedient to my heavenly vision, that I was looking up into the -heavens for my call, and the voice might be all the time in my ear. -That was the night I came back here and found you so cozy and -satisfied under your own roof-tree, with the voice in your ear, and -the work in your hand. The world went away from me. I stayed. I am -glad I stayed. My only trouble is, and it is a real trouble, that God -did not care for my purpose, or my prayers; that he has let them go -as if they never entered into his mind; I thought they were in his -heart as well as mine." - -"They are, Deary," said Aunt Affy, wiping her eyes; "He will not let -one of them go." - -"But He did not do anything with them. He did not _love_ my plan, and -my prayers," said Judith, wearily. - -"Do you remember one time when Jesus was on the earth, a man, clothed -and in his right mind, sat at Jesus' feet? He had so much to be -thankful for; no man ever had so much. And he sat at Jesus' feet, -near him because he loved him, and looked up into his face and -listened. That was all he wanted on the earth, to be with Jesus; to -follow him everywhere, to obey every word he said, to always see his -face, to serve him. Did not the Lord care for such love when so many -were scorning him and ashamed to be his disciples? When he came to -his own, and his own received him not. When the man found that Jesus -was going away, that his countrymen were sending him away, beseeching -him to go, he besought Jesus, which was more than one asking, that he -might go with him. That was all he wanted: just to go with him. Just -as all you wanted was to be with him and do something he said, _and -be sure he said it_. But Jesus sent this man away. He refused him; he -denied his prayer." - -"That was very hard," said Judith. - -"Very hard. It was like giving him a glimpse of Heaven--it was Heaven, -and then shutting the door in his face as he prayed." - -"Yes," said Judith, who understood. - -"But he did speak to him; he told him what to do: 'Return to thine -own house.' If he had father, mother, brother, sister, wife, -children, go back to them and tell them how good God had been to him. -When I look at you, Deary, stepping about the house, so pretty and -bright, I think of how glad your mother must be if she sees you. How -glad to know the little girl she left was taken care of. And in -church when you play the organ, and in Sunday School, and at the -Lord's own table, and doing errands all around the village, you are a -blessing in your 'own house.'" - -Judith's head went down on Aunt Affy's knee. - -"This man went through the 'whole city' beside; his own house grew -into the whole city. Your life isn't ended yet; to old folks like -Uncle Cephas and me, it seems just begun. Your own house is only just -the beginning of the whole city. I've only had my own house and -Bensalem, but I seem to think there's a whole city for you. The Lord -knew about the whole city when he denied his prayer and sent him to -his own house." - -Judith did not lift her head; her tears were tears of shame and -penitence. - -"Now, here come the men folks," roused Aunt Affy, cheerily; "and -supper they must have to keep them good-natured." - -"I am only in my 'own house' yet," said Judith, as she moved about -setting the supper table as she had done when she was a little girl. - - - - -XXXIII. NETTIE'S OUTING. - - - "Does the road wind up hill all the way?" - "Yes, to the very end." - "Will the day's journey take the whole, long day?" - "From morn to night, my friend." - - --Christina G. Rossetti. - -This same evening, in the March snow-storm, Nettie Evans sat in her -invalid chair beside the table in her chamber. Nettie had not grown up -in appearance; face and figure were slight, her cheeks were pale, her -eyes large and luminous; her laugh was as light-hearted as the laugh -of any girl in the village; her father often told her that she was the -busiest maiden in Bensalem. - -Her busy times grew out of Mrs. Lane's secret. - -Nettie was the member of a society; the Shut-In Society. It was an -organized society; it published a magazine monthly: _The Open Window_, -with a motto upon its title-page: - - "The windows of my soul I throw - Wide open to the sun." - -Since Mrs. Lane had told her about the Society and made her a member -she had thrown the windows of her soul wide open to the sun. - -_And the Lord shut him in_, was the motto of the Society. Nettie had -marked the precious words in her Bible with the date of her accident, -and another date: the day when she became a member of the Shut-In -Society. - -_The Open Window_ had come in to-night's mail; Nettie had been -counting the hours until mail time, and laughed a joyful little laugh -all to herself when she heard her father say to her mother in the -hall below: "It's mail time, and I must go to the office to-night, -storm or no storm; Nettie will not sleep a wink unless she has her -magazine." - -It was her feast every month. The members and associates numbered -hundreds and hundreds, Nettie did not know how many; and they were -all around the world. Nettie herself had had a letter from the -Sandwich Islands: the magazine was sent to a leper colony, but she -would never dare to write a letter to such a place. With every fresh -magazine she read the object and aim of the Society:-- - -"This Association shall be called the Shut-in Society, and shall -consist of Members and Associates. Its object shall be: To relieve -the weariness of the sick-room by sending and receiving letters and -other tokens of remembrance; to testify to the love and presence of -Christ in the hour of suffering and privation; to pray for one -another at set times: daily, at the twilight hour, and weekly on -Tuesday morning at ten o'clock; to stimulate faith, hope, patience, -and courage in fellow-sufferers by the study and presentation of -Bible promises. - -"To be a sufferer, shut in from the outside world, constitutes one a -proper candidate for membership in this Society. All members are -requested to send with their application, if possible, the name of -their pastor or their physician, or of some Associate of the Society, -as introduction; and no name should be forwarded for membership until -the individual has been consulted and consent obtained. If able, -members are expected to pay 50 cents yearly for The Open Window. Any -who are unable will please inform the Secretary. - -"As this is not an almsgiving society, its members are requested not -to apply for money or other material aid to the officers, Associates, -or other members. Any assistance which can be given in the way of -remunerative work will be cheerfully rendered. - -"Members are not to urge upon any one in the Society the peculiar -belief of any particular sect or denomination. - -"Associate members are not themselves invalids, but, being in tender -sympathy with the suffering, volunteer in this ministry of love for -Jesus' sake." - -Mrs. Lane had been an Associate member from the time of the -organization of the Society in 1877. Jean Draper Prince, coming to -Nettie's chamber upon the Shut-In's last birthday, and finding her -with a tableful and lapful of mail packages, had told her that Mrs. -Lane had given her the biggest "outing" any girl in the village ever -had. - -Nettie had fifteen regular correspondents, and never a week passed -that she was not touched by an appeal for letters and did not write -an extra letter to some one not on her "list." The wool slippers in -her work-basket she had finished to-day for a Shut-In birthday gift -next month. Every night in her prayer she gave thanks for the -blessings that widened and brightened her life through "the dear -Shut-In Society." - -As she sat reading her magazine, too deep in it to hear a sound, -light feet ran up the narrow stairway. She did not lift her eyes -until Pet Draper, Jean's youngest sister, pushed the door open. - -"Why, Pet," she exclaimed. "Are you out in this storm?" - -"No," laughed Pet, "I am _in_ in this storm. I came to stay all -night." - -"I shouldn't think you _would_ want to go out again to-night." - -"Oh, it isn't so bad. The snow is light. Joe brought me," she said, -with sudden meaning in her tones. - -"Did he?" asked Nettie, absently; "just let me read you this. 'This -lady walked forty steps to go out to tea--for the first time in -thirty-two years.' I wonder if I shall ever go out to tea." - -"Nettie, you shall come to my wedding." - -"Pet!" exclaimed Nettie, in delight and surprise. - -"Yes. And I came to tell you. I told Joe tonight I would marry him," -she said, laughing and coloring. - -"I'm so glad. I'm so _glad_," repeated Nettie; "he is so good and -kind." - -"He is as good as David Prince any day. Jean needn't put on airs -because he was only a farm boy. He is more than that now. Mr. Brush -has promised to build a little house just opposite his house, across -the road, and Joe is not to be paid wages, but to take the farm on -shares. Plenty of people do that. Mr. Brush says he is his -right-hand. Father will furnish our house--it will not take much. -Perhaps some day Joe will have a farm of his own. My father had to -earn his farm, and that's why the mortgage isn't off yet. Joe has -saved some money, and so have I. Agnes Trembly will try to give me -her customers when she is married; she always speaks a good word for -me. I've made dresses for Mrs. Brush and Judith and Miss Marion." - -"And wrappers for me," said Nettie. - -"Yes, I shall always have you to make my fortune." - -"That is splendid, and I am so glad. But here's my letter in the -_Open Window_: do let me read it to you." - -Pet laughed, and listened. She believed Nettie liked the Shut-In -Society as well as having a new little house and a husband. Nettie -would have told her she liked it better. - -While Pet slept her happy, healthful sleep that night, after her -somewhat hurried two minutes of kneeling to pray, Nettie lay -peacefully awake remembering the "requests for prayer" in her _Open -Window_. - -"Our prayers are earnestly asked for an aged man, who has lost the -home of his childhood, that he may feel that God does it for the best -and may love God. Also a lady whose life is very sad, that she may -look up to God and rejoice in him. - -"Pray for one who fears blindness, that if possible it may be -averted, but if it must be, in the midst of darkness there may be the -light of God's countenance. - -"Let us remember the sorrowing hearts from whom sisters or parents or -children have been taken by death. - -"One long a sufferer from disease, asks us to pray that if it be -God's will she may be healed. - -"One who feels that answers to our prayers have been granted, asks -that we still pray that the use of his limbs may be restored and that -a beloved mother may long be spared to him." - -"One of our number writes, 'Pray that father and the children may be -saved and that mother and I love God better.' It is hard sometimes -for Christians so to live that unconverted members of the family be -drawn by their lives toward Christ. This mother and daughter truly -need our prayers. - -"One of our band is trying to build up a church in a lonely spot. She -asks us to pray God's help for her." - -Nettie's outing went out farther than anyone knew. She could tell -about her gifts and her letters, but never about her intercession. - -"I wonder," she planned, "if I couldn't have a little Fair; all the -girls would do something; I have so little money to give. I couldn't -go--unless I have it in my room." - -She wanted to wake Pet to talk about it, but that would be selfish, -and then--Pet might be cross. - -She fell asleep beside the strong young girl who lent her life from -her own vitality; the full, breathing lips, the warm cheeks, the head -with its masses of auburn hair, the touch of the hand upon her own -were all life giving. Nettie loved girls; the girls who were what she -might have been. - -Awaking out of restless sleep, she remembered the Midnight Circle to -pray for the sleepless, and prayed: "Father, give them all sleep, if -thou wilt; but, if thy will be not so, give them all _something -better than sleep_." - - - - -XXXIV. "SENSATIONS." - - - "Being fruitful in every good work, and increasing - in the knowledge of God." - -This same March night in the snow-storm the Bensalem preacher sat -alone in his study among his books, with his thoughts among his -people whom he loved. - -Marion brought her work-basket and took her seat on the other side of -the lamp. The evening's mail was upon the table. - -"What do the letters bring to-night, Roger?" she inquired in the tone -of one hungry for news. - -"Enough to stir us up for one while." - -"Good. I am always ready to be stirred up. I have been stagnant all -day." - -"What a girl you are for wanting new sensations." - -"Aren't you always after them?" - -"No, they are always after me." - -"Which one is after you now?" - -"Four." - -"Four letters," she said, eagerly. - -"There are more than four letters. But four have sensations." - -"Do give me half a sensation." - -"What do you think of John writing me that he is tired of medicine, -it is too big a pull; he wants me to break it to father, and ask him -to take him into the business." - -"Father will be glad enough; but he will not like John to give up for -such a reason." - -"I imagine that girl is at the bottom of it. Girls are usually at the -bottom of things. Her father will be willing for the marriage if John -goes into business; he did not relish the idea of a struggling -professional man." - -"Lottie Kindare is not the girl to relish a long engagement, either. -I am not surprised at _that_ sensation." - -"You will not be surprised that Richard King has resigned and -accepted a call to the Summer Avenue church." - -"Oh, no; father said they were determined to have him." - -"And he's to be married, too." - -"I cannot be surprised at that. That is not a sensation. I knew he -was taken with Agnes Trembly that first time he met her here. She did -look as sweet as a violet. She has grown like a flower this last -year." - -"Thanks to you. You have been a wonderful help to her. You took her -into a new world." - -"That is what I tried to do. She was ready for it. And to think our -little country dressmaker will be the wife of the Summer Avenue -minister." - -"Oh, she'll take to it. It is in her." - -"Yes; she has tact." - -"And natural ability." - -"That is only--how many sensations?" - -"You saw that one letter was from Don. He is coming home next month. -Really, this time." - -"His wife has been dead--" - -"A year. Their married life was very short. All the happier because -it was short. She has become a blessed memory to him. She was very -sweet in the last month of her life. He loved her then as he had -never loved her before. She told him that she did not love him when -she married him; that she married him to get away from her uncle's -home. That last month was the one sweet drop in his bitter cup." - -"Roger, you knew his story all the time." - -"From the very first. He was not proud with me. He is so much like a -woman that he had to tell somebody." - -"That proves how little you know of women," was the woman's unspoken -comment. - -"Now, for my last sensation. The First Church in Dunellen asks if I -will accept a call." - -"O, Roger," with a mingling of sensations. - -"It is 'O, Roger,' I am torn in two." - -"One Roger for Bensalem and one for Dunellen." - -"I have known for some time that I might have the call. Dear old Dr. -Kent has resigned. He told me he wanted to throw his mantle over me." - -"The salary is twenty-five hundred and parsonage," remarked Marion. - -"I suppose I am not above the consideration of salary. I cannot work -at tent making." - -"Bensalem has had the best of you." - -"Well, I hope not--at my age." - -"Bensalem has been preparation for Dunellen, then," she amended. - -"What do you advise?" - -"I do not advise a man when his mind is made up." - -"Bensalem has been good for us." - -"And we have not been so bad for Bensalem. Seven is the perfect -number. We have been here seven years. What _will_ Judith say?" - -"I think I will go and see," he said, rising. - -"To-night? In the storm?" - -"It will be the first storm I ever was afraid of." - -Left alone, Marion forgot her work. It was not only Dunellen. He -would forget to ask Judith about Dunellen. - -Judith was sitting before the fire on the hearth with a book when -Roger stamped up on the piazza. Aunt Affy, mixing bread at the -kitchen table, heard the gate swing to, and called to Uncle Cephas -that somebody must want shelter for the night to come out in such a -storm. Uncle Cephas dropped his newspaper and opened the sitting-room -door that led to the piazza. - -"Well, the minister, of all things!" - -"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Aunt Affy, rubbing the flour off her hands. - -Judith sat still by the fire. - -"I had to come to see my elder," explained Roger. - -"Oh, church business," said Aunt Affy enlightened. - -"Young folks never mind a storm," remarked the elder. "Shake off your -snow, and come to the fire." - -As Judith arose with her book Roger detained her; "This isn't a -secret session, Judith. You and Aunt Affy must help me decide about -Dunellen." - -"Dunellen! Has it come to that?" inquired the elder. - -"Dunellen has come to me. The First Church has come to me." - -"I might have known what would come of your exchanging so often," -remarked Uncle Cephas, discontentedly. - -"I thought you did it to rest Dr. Kent," reproached Aunt Affy. - -"I did. It did rest him." - -"And you got ensnared yourself. Roger Kenney, are you going there for -the money?" asked Uncle Cephas, with solemnity. - -"You know better than that," replied Roger, angrily. - -"The heart of man is deceitful. There's a great difference in the -salary. But there's a difference in the man. You've grown some since -you came here seven years ago." - -"Uncle Cephas, I think you are _wicked_," protested Judith, with -tearful vehemence. "If you don't know Roger better than that you do -not know him at all." - -"You don't know men," insisted the elder of the Bensalem church. "The -heart is deceitful and desperately wicked." - -"Judith knows mine is not," laughed Roger. - -"Judith, don't fly at me and eat me up," said Uncle Cephas; "I know -this young man as well as most folks. He doesn't love money _enough_. -He may be going for something, but it isn't for money." - -"He is going for more young folks," said Aunt Affy, "and men about -his own age. I'm willing, but it's terrible hard." - -Judith turned to the fire again. - -"Come, sit down and let's talk it over," said Uncle Cephas, in a -pacified tone; "I won't pull the wrong way if it's best." - -An hour afterward Aunt Affy called her husband out into the kitchen. - -"Cephas," she whispered, "don't you _know_ he wants to ask Judith -what she thinks?" - -"She isn't a member of the session," replied Uncle Cephas, with -dignity. - -"She is a member of _his_ session," said wise Aunt Affy. - -After this, what more would you know of Judith's growing up? - -She was married on her twentieth birthday, and her Cousin Don was at -the wedding. She was married in the Bensalem church; Richard King -performed the ceremony. Roger asked if she would have dear old Dr. -Kent, but in memory of that afternoon at Meadow Centre, she chose -Richard King. - -"Don, it wouldn't have been perfect without you," she whispered when -her Cousin Don kissed her. The next year Judith finished her book of -children's stories which she wished to take to Heaven to show her -mother. - -Marion was the maiden aunt at the Dunellen parsonage. Don Mackenzie -was everybody's good friend. - - - - - A. L. Burt's Catalogue of Books - for Young People by Popular Writers, - 52-58 Duane Street, New York - - BOOKS FOR GIRLS - -Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. By Lewis Carroll. 12mo, cloth, 42 -illustrations, price 75 cents. - - "From first to last, almost without exception, this story is - delightfully droll, humorous and illustrated in harmony with - the story."--New York Express. - -Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There. By Lewis -Carroll. 12mo, cloth, 50 illustrations, price 75 cents. - - "A delight alike to the young people and their elders, - extremely funny both In test and illustrations."--Boston - Express. - -Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe. By Charlotte M. Yonge. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "This story is unique among tales intended for children, alike - for pleasant instruction, quaintness of humor, gentle pathos, - and the subtlety with which lessons moral and otherwise fire - conveyed to children, and perhaps to their seniors as - well."--The Spectator. - -Joan's Adventures at the North Pole and Elsewhere. By Alice Corkran. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Wonderful as the adventures of Joan are. It must be admitted - that they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly - presented. Altogether this is an excellent story for - girls."--Saturday Review. - -Count Up the Sunny Days: A Story for Girls and Boys. By C. A. Jones. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "An unusually good children's story."--Glasgow Herald. - -The Dove in the Eagle's Nest. By Charlotte M. Yonge. 13mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Among all the modern writers we believe Miss Yonge first, not - in genius, but in this, that she employs her great abilities - for a high and noble purpose. We know of few modern writers - whose works may be so safely commended as hers."--Cleveland Times. - -Jan of the Windmill. A Story of the Plains. By Mrs. J. H. Ewing. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Never has Mrs. Ewing published a more charming volume, and - that is saying a very great deal. From the first to the last - the book overflows with the strange knowledge of child-nature - which so rarely survives childhood; and moreover, with - inexhaustible quiet humor, which is never anything but - innocent and well-bred, never priggish, and never - clumsy."--Academy. - -A Sweet Girl Graduate. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price -$1.00. - - "One of this popular author's best. The characters are well - imagined and drawn. The story moves with plenty of spirit and - the interest does not flag until the end too quickly - comes."--Providence Journal. - -Six to Sixteen: A Story for Girls. By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "There is no doubt as to the good quality and attractiveness - of 'Six to Sixteen.' The book is one which would enrich any - girl's book shelf."--St. James' Gazette. - -The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "A bright and interesting story. The many admirers of Mrs. L. - T. Meade in this country will be delighted with the 'Palace - Beautiful' for more reasons than one. It is a charming book - for girls."--New York Recorder. - -A World of Girls: The Story of a School. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of those wholesome stories which it does one good to - read. It will afford pure delight to numerous readers. This - book should be on every girl's book shelf."--Boston Home - Journal. - -The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "This story is written in the author's well-known, fresh and - easy style. All girls fond of reading will be charmed by this - well-written story. It is told with the author's customary - grace and spirit."--Boston Times. - -At the Back of the North Wind. By George Macdonald. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "A very pretty story, with much of the freshness and vigor of - Mr. Macdonald's earlier work.... It is a sweet, earnest, and - wholesome fairy story, and the quaint native humor is - delightful. A most delightful volume for young - readers."--Philadelphia Times. - -The Water Babies: A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. By Charles Kingsley. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "The strength of his work, as well as its peculiar charms, - consist in his description of the experiences of a youth with - life under water in the luxuriant wealth of which he revels - with all the ardor of a poetical nature."--New York Tribune. - -Our Bessie. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of the most entertaining stories of the season, full of - vigorous action, and strong in character-painting. Older girls - will be charmed with it, and adults may read its pages with - profit."--The Teachers' Aid. - -Wild Kitty. A Story of Middleton School. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Kitty is a true heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, - as all good women nowadays are, largely touched with the - enthusiasm of humanity. One of the most attractive gift books - of the season."--The Academy. - -A Young Mutineer. A Story, for Girls. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of Mrs. Meade's charming books for girls, narrated in - that simple and picturesque style which marks the authoress as - one of the first among writers for young people"--The Spectator. - -Sue and I. By Mrs. O'Reilly. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "A thoroughly delightful book, full of sound wisdom as well as - fun."--Athenæum. - -The Princess and the Goblin. A Fairy Story. By George Macdonald. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "If a child once begins this book, it will get so deeply - interested in it that when bedtime comes it will altogether - forget the moral, and will weary its parents with - importunities for just a few minutes more to see how - everything ends."--Saturday Review. - -Pythia's Pupils: A Story of a School. By Eva Hartner. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "This story of the doings of several bright school girls is - sure to interest girl readers. Among many good stories for - girls this is undoubtedly one of the very best."--Teachers' Aid. - -A Story of a Short Life. By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "The book is one we can heartily recommend, for it is not only - bright and interesting, but also pure and healthy in tone and - teaching."--Courier. - -The Sleepy King. A Fairy Tale. By Aubrey Hopwood and Seymour Hicks. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Wonderful as the adventures of Bluebell are, it must be - admitted that they are very naturally worked out and very - plausibly presented. Altogether this is an excellent story for - girls."--Saturday Review. - -Two Little Waifs. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price -75 cents. - - "Mrs. Molesworth's delightful story of 'Two Little Waifs' will - charm all the small people who find it in their stockings. It - relates the adventures of two lovable English children lost in - Paris, and is just wonderful enough to pleasantly wring the - youthful heart."--New York Tribune. - -Adventures in Toyland. By Edith King Hall. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price 75 cents. - - "The author is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories - are always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and - her record of the adventures is as entertaining and enjoyable - as we might expect."--Boston Courier. - -Adventures in Wallypug Land. By G. E. Farrow. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "These adventures are simply inimitable, and will delight boys - and girls of mature age, as well as their juniors. No happier - combination of author and artist than this volume presents - could be found to furnish healthy amusement to the young - folks. The book is an artistic one in every sense."--Toronto - Mail. - -Fussbudget's Folks. A Story for Young Girls. By Anna F. Burnham. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Mrs. Burnham has a rare gift for composing stories for - children. With a light, yet forcible touch, she paints sweet - and artless, yet natural and strong, - characters."--Congregationalist. - -Mixed Pickles. A Story for Girls. By Mrs. E. M. Field. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "It is, in its way, a little classic, of which the real beauty - and pathos can hardly be appreciated by young people. It is - not too much to say of the story that it is perfect of its - kind."--Good Literature. - -Miss Mouse and Her Boys. A Story for Girls. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Mrs. Molesworth's books are cheery, wholesome, and - particularly well adapted to refined life. It is safe to add - that she is the best English prose writer for children. A new - volume from Mrs. Molesworth is always a treat."--The Beacon. - -Gilly Flower. A Story for Girls. By the author of "Miss Toosey's -Mission." 12mo., cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Jill is a little guardian angel to three lively brothers who - tease and play with her.... Her unconscious goodness brings - right thoughts and resolves to several persons who come into - contact with her. There is no goodiness in this tale, but its - influence is of the best kind."--Literary World. - -The Chaplet of Pearls; or, The White and Black Ribaumont. By Charlotte -M. Yonge. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that - grown-up readers may enjoy it as much as children. It is one - of the best books of the season."--Guardian. - -Naughty Miss Bunny: Her Tricks and Troubles. By Clara Mulholland. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "The naughty child is positively delightful. Papas should not - omit the book from their list of juvenile presents."--Land and - Water. - -Meg's Friend. By Alice Corkran. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of Miss Corkran's charming books for girls, narrated in - that simple and picturesque style which marks the authoress as - one of the first among writers for young people."--The Spectator. - -Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "A charming story for young folks. Averil is a delightful - creature--piquant, tender, and true--and her varying fortunes - are perfectly realistic."--World. - -Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first - to last. This is, both in its intention and the way the story - is told, one of the best books of its kind which has come - before us this year."--Saturday Review. - -Little Sunshine's Holiday: A Picture from Life. By Miss Mulock. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "This is a pretty narrative of child life, describing the - simple doings and sayings of a very charming and rather - precocious child. This is a delightful book for young - people."--Gazette. - -Esther's Charge. A Story for Girls. By Ellen Everett Green. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "... This is a story showing in a charming way how one little - girl's jealousy and bad temper were conquered; one of the - best, most suggestive and improving of the Christmas - juveniles."--New York Tribune. - -Fairy Land of Science. By Arabella B. Buckley. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "We can highly recommend it; not only for the valuable - information it gives on the special subjects to which it is - dedicated, but also as a book teaching natural sciences in an - interesting way. A fascinating little volume, which will make - friends in every household in which there are children."--Daily - News. - -Merle's Crusade. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price -$1.00. - - "Among the books for young people we have seen nothing more - unique than this book. Like all of this author's stories it - will please young readers by the very attractive and charming - style in which it is written."--Journal. - -Birdie: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. Childe-Pemberton. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness - about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the - cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier - years."--New York Express. - -The Days of Bruce: A Story from Scottish History. By Grace Aguilar. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "There is a delightful freshness, sincerity and vivacity about - all of Grace Aguilar's stories which cannot fail to win the - interest and admiration of every lover of good - reading."--Boston Beacon. - -Three Bright Girls: A Story of Chance and Mischance. By Annie E. -Armstrong. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "The charm of the story lies in the cheery helpfulness of - spirit developed in the girls by their changed circumstances; - while the author finds a pleasant ending to all their happy - makeshifts. The story is charmingly told, and the book can be - warmly recommended as a present for girls."--Standard. - -Giannetta: A Girl's Story of Herself. By Rosa Mulholland. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Extremely well told and full of interest. Giannetta is a true - heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all good women - nowadays are, largely touched with enthusiasm of humanity. The - illustrations are unusually good. One of the most attractive - gift books of the season."--The Academy. - -Margery Merton's Girlhood. By Alice Corkran. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price $1.00. - - "The experiences of an orphan girl who in infancy is left by - her father to the care of an elderly aunt residing near Paris. - The accounts of the various persons who have an after - influence on the story are singularly vivid. There is a subtle - attraction about the book which will make it a great favorite - with thoughtful girls."--Saturday Review. - -Under False Colors: A Story from Two Girls' Lives, By Sarah Doudney. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Sarah Doudney has no superior as a writer of high-toned - stories--pure in style, original in conception, and with - skillfully wrought out plots; but we have seen nothing equal - in dramatic energy to this book."--Christian Leader. - -Down the Snow Stairs; or, From Good-night to Good-morning. By Alice -Corkran. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Among all the Christmas volumes which the year has brought to - our table this one stands out facile princeps--a gem of the - first water, bearing upon every one of its pages the signet - mark of genius.... All is told with such simplicity and - perfect naturalness that the dream appears to be a solid - reality. It is indeed a Little Pilgrim's Progress."--Christian - Leader. - -The Tapestry Room: A Child's Romance. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Mrs. Molesworth is a charming painter of the nature and ways - of children; and she has done good service in giving us this - charming juvenile which will delight the young - people."--Athenæum, London. - -Little Miss Peggy: Only a Nursery Story. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - Mrs. Molesworth's children are finished studies. A joyous - earnest spirit pervades her work, and her sympathy is - unbounded. She loves them with her whole heart, while she lays - bare their little minds, and expresses their foibles, their - faults, their virtues, their inward struggles, their - conception of duty, and their instinctive knowledge of the - right and wrong of things. She knows their characters, she - understands their wants, and she desires to help them. - -Polly: A New Fashioned Girl. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price $1.00. - - Few authors have achieved a popularity equal to Mrs. Meade as - a writer of stories for young girls. Her characters are living - beings of flesh and blood, not lay figures of conventional - type. Into the trials and crosses, and everyday experiences, - the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. While - Mrs. Meade always writes with a high moral purpose, her - lessons of life, purity and nobility of character are rather - inculcated by example than intruded as sermons. - -One of a Covey. By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mission." 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that - grown-up readers may enjoy it as much as children. This - 'Covey' consists of the twelve children of a hard-pressed Dr. - Partridge out of which is chosen a little girl to be adopted - by a spoiled, fine lady. We have rarely read a story for boys - and girls with greater pleasure. One of the chief characters - would not have disgraced Dickens' pen."--Literary World. - -The Little Princess of Tower Hill. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "This is one of the prettiest books for children published, as - pretty as a pond-lily, and quite as fragrant. Nothing could be - imagined more attractive to young people than such a - combination of fresh pages and fair pictures; and while - children will rejoice over it--which is much better than crying - for it--it is a book that can be read with pleasure even by - older boys and girls."--Boston Advertiser. - -Rosy. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - Mrs. Molesworth, considering the quality and quantity of her - labors, is the best story-teller for children England has yet - known. - - "This is a very pretty story. The writer knows children, and - their ways well. The illustrations are exceedingly well - drawn."--Spectator. - -Esther: A Book for Girls. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price $1.00. - - "She inspires her readers simply by bringing them in contact - with the characters, who are in themselves inspiring. Her - simple stories are woven in order to give her an opportunity - to describe her characters by their own conduct in seasons of - trial."--Chicago Times. - -Sweet Content. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 -cents. - - "It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child - than to draw a lifelike man or woman: Shakespeare and Webster - were the only two men of their age who could do it with - perfect delicacy and success. Our own age is more fortunate, - on this single score at least, having a larger and far nobler - proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of - George Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite - and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to - knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, so - truthful, or so delightful as Mrs. Molesworth's."--A. C. - Swinbourne. - -Honor Bright; or, The Four-Leaved Shamrock. By the author of "Miss -Toosey's Mission." 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "It requires a special talent to describe the sayings and - doings of children, and the author of 'Honor Bright,' 'One of - a Covey,' possesses that talent in no small degree. A cheery, - sensible, and healthy tale."--The Times. - -The Cuckoo Clock. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price -75 cents. - - "A beautiful little story. It will be read with delight by - every child into whose hands it is placed.... The author - deserves all the praise that has been, is, and will be - bestowed on 'The Cuckoo Clock.' Children's stories are - plentiful, but one like this is not to be met with every - day."--Pall Mall Gazette. - -The Adventures of a Brownie. As Told to my Child. By Miss Mulock. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "The author of this delightful little book leaves it in doubt - all through whether there actually is such a creature in - existence as a Brownie, but she makes us hope that there might - be."--Chicago Standard. - -Only a Girl: A Tale of Brittany. From the French by C. A. Jones. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "We can thoroughly recommend this brightly written and homely - narrative."--Saturday Review. - -Little Rosebud; or, Things Will Take a Turn. By Beatrice Harraden. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "A most delightful little book.... Miss Harraden is so bright, - so healthy, and so natural withal that the book ought, as a - matter of duty, to be added to every girl's library in the - land."--Boston Transcript. - -Girl Neighbors; or, The Old Fashion and the New. By Sarah Tytler. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of the most effective and quietly humorous of Miss - Tytler's stories. 'Girl Neighbors' is a pleasant comedy, not - so much of errors as of prejudices got rid of, very healthy, - very agreeable, and very well written."--Spectator. - -The Little Lame Prince and His Traveling Cloak. By Miss Mulock. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "No sweeter--that is the proper word--Christmas story for the - little folks could easily be found, and it is as delightful - for older readers as well. There is a moral to it which the - reader can find out for himself, if he chooses to - think."--Cleveland Herald. - -Little Miss Joy. By Emma Marshall. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 -cents. - - "A very pleasant and instructive story, told by a very - charming writer in such an attractive way as to win favor - among its young readers. The illustrations add to the beauty - of the book."--Utica Herald. - -The House that Grew. A Girl's Story. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "This is a very pretty story of English life. Mrs. Molesworth - is one of the most popular and charming of English - story-writers for children. Her child characters are true to - life, always natural and attractive, and her stories are - wholesome and interesting."--Indianapolis Journal. - -The House of Surprises. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price 75 cents. - - "A charming tale of charming children, who are naughty enough - to be interesting, and natural enough to be lovable; and very - prettily their story is told. The quaintest yet most natural - stories of child life. Simply delightful."--Vanity Fair. - -The Jolly Ten: and their Year of Stories. By Agnes Carr Sage. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - The story of a band of cousins who were accustomed to meet at - the "Pinery," with "Aunt Roxy." At her fireside they play - merry games, have suppers flavored with innocent fun, and - listen to stories--each with its lesson calculated to make the - ten not less jolly, but quickly responsive to the calls of - duty and to the needs of others. - -Little Miss Dorothy. The Wonderful Adventures of Two Little People. By -Martha James. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75c. - - "This is a charming little juvenile story from the pen of Mrs. - James, detailing the various adventures of a couple of young - children. Their many adventures are told in a charming manner, - and the book will please young girls and boys."--Montreal Star. - -Pen's Venture. A Story for Girls. By Elvirton Wright. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - Something Pen saw in the condition of the cash girls in a certain - store gave her a thought; the thought became a plan; the plan - became a venture--Pen's venture. It is amusing, touching, and - instructive to read about it. - - For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on - receipt of price by the publisher, - A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Growing Up, by Jennie M. Drinkwater - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GROWING UP *** - -***** This file should be named 42408-8.txt or 42408-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/4/0/42408/ - -Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Drinkwater</title> <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg"/> <meta name="author" content="Jennie M. Drinkwater"/> @@ -35,45 +35,8 @@ .larger { font-size: larger; } </style> </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Growing Up, by Jennie M. Drinkwater - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Growing Up - A Story of the Girlhood of Judith Mackenzie - -Author: Jennie M. Drinkwater - -Release Date: March 24, 2013 [EBook #42408] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GROWING UP *** - - - - -Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42408 ***</div> <div class='image-center'> <img src='images/cover.jpg' id='cover' class='img-limits' alt=''/> @@ -10915,379 +10878,6 @@ instructive to read about it.</p> <p class='center mtb0'>receipt of price by the publisher,</p> <p class='center mtb0'>A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York.</p> - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Growing Up, by Jennie M. Drinkwater - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GROWING UP *** - -***** This file should be named 42408-h.htm or 42408-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/4/0/42408/ - -Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Growing Up - A Story of the Girlhood of Judith Mackenzie - -Author: Jennie M. Drinkwater - -Release Date: March 24, 2013 [EBook #42408] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GROWING UP *** - - - - -Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - GROWING UP - - A Story of the Girlhood of - - JUDITH MACKENZIE - - - By JENNIE M. DRINKWATER - - - "Each year grows more sacred - with wondering expectation." - - --Phillips Brooks. - - - A. L. BURT COMPANY, - PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. - - - - - Copyright, 1894, - - By A. I. Bradley & Co. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - I. The Horn Book - II. Square Root and Other Things - III. Was this the End? - IV. Bensalem - V. Daily Bread and Daily Will - VI. The Best Thing in the World - VII. A Small Disciple - VIII. This Way or That Way? - IX. The Flowers That Came to the Well - X. The Last Apple - XI. How Jean Had an Outing - XII. A Secret Errand - XIII. The Two Blessed Things - XIV. An Afternoon with an Adventure in It - XV. "First at Antioch" - XVI. Aunt Affy's Experience - XVII. The Story of a Key - XVIII. Judith's Turning Point - XIX. A Morning with a Surprise in It - XX. Judith's Afternoon - XXI. Marion's Afternoon - XXII. Aunt Affy's Evening - XXIII. Voices - XXIV. "I Always Thought You Cared" - XXV. Cousin Don - XXVI. Aunt Affy's Faith and Judith's Foreign Letter - XXVII. His Very Best - XXVIII. A New Anxiety - XXIX. Judith's Future - XXX. A Talk and What Came of It - XXXI. About Women - XXXII. Aunt Affy's Picture - XXXIII. Nettie's Outing - XXXIV. "Sensations" - - - - - GROWING UP - - - - -I. THE HORN BOOK. - - - "I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, - And the horn book I learned on my poor mother's knee. - In truth, I suspect little else do we learn - From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn, - Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, - What we learned in the horn book of childhood." - - --Owen Meredith. - -Judith's mother sat in her invalid chair before the grate; she looked -very pretty to Judith with her hair curling back from her face, and -the color of her eyes and cheeks brought out by the becoming wrapper; -the firelight shone upon the mother; the fading light in the west -shone upon the girl in the bay-window, the yellow head, the blue -shoulders bent over the letter she was writing. - -"Judith, come and tell me pictures." - -About five o'clock in the afternoon, her mother's weariest-time, -Judith often told her mother pictures. - -The picture-telling began when Judith was a little girl; one afternoon -she said: "Mother, I'll tell you a picture; shut your eyes." - -It was in this very room; her mother leaned back in her wheel-chair, -lifted her feet to the fender, shut her eyes, and a small -seven-year-old "told" her "picture." - -Telling pictures had been the amusement of the one, and the rest of -the other, many, many weary times since. - -As the child grew, her pictures grew. - -"Yes, mother," said the girl in the bay window, "I've just finished my -letter; I've written Aunt Affy the longest letter and told her all you -said." - -"Read it to me, please?" - -Standing near the window to catch the light, Judith read aloud the -letter. - -At times it was quaint and unchildish; then, forgetting herself, -Judith had run on with her ready pen, and, with pretty phrases, told -Aunt Affy the exciting events in her own life, and the quiet story of -her mother's days. - -"We are coming as soon as spring comes," she ended, "mother is coming -to get strong, and I am coming to help you and learn about your -village. Beautiful Bensalem. Mother says I am learning the lessons -taught out of school; but how I would like to go to school with Jean -Draper in your big, queer school-room." As she turned towards her -mother, the firelight and the light in her face were all the lights in -the room. - -The home of these two people was in two rooms; one was the kitchen, -the other was bed-room, school-room, parlor. It was a month since her -mother had walked through the two rooms; several times a day Judith -pushed the wheel-chair through the rooms. She called these times her -mother's excursions. Last winter her mother wiped dishes, sewed a -little, and once she made cake; this winter she had done little -besides teach Judith. The child was such an apt scholar that her -mother said she needed no teacher--she always taught herself. - -Judith loved housekeeping; she loved everything she had to do, she -loved everything she was growing up to do; her mother she loved best -of all. - -She lived all day long in a very busy world; the pictures helped fill -it. - -"Now, mother, shut your eyes," she began, gleefully. - -[Illustration: "Now, mother, shut your eyes," said Judith gleefully.] - -The eyes shut themselves, the restless hands held themselves still; -there would not be many more weary days, but Judith did not know that. - -Judith waited a moment until she could think. - -"Mother, how do pictures come?" - -"Bring me that paper Don brought last night; I saw something to show -you, then forgot it." - -Her mother turned the leaves of the paper and indicated the paragraph -with her finger. Judith read it aloud:-- - -"Some years ago I chanced to meet Sir Noel Paton on the shores of a -beautiful Scottish loch, all alone, with an open Bible in his hand. He -put his finger between his pages, as he rose to greet me, and still -kept it there as we talked. Supposing he might be devoting a quiet -hour to devotional reading in the secluded spot, I made no remark on -the nature of his studies; but after a few minutes he observed, with a -glance downwards, 'You see, I am getting a new picture.' He then -proceeded to explain that it was his habit, before settling down to -his winter's work, to walk about in the neighborhood of his summer -residence, wherever that might be, with his Bible in his hand, seeking -for an inspiration. Sometimes the inspiration came almost immediately; -at others, he was weeks before he could please himself. The following -spring appeared 'The Good Shepherd,' one of the finest of his works." - -Her mother made no remark; she often waited for Judith's thought. - -"I think Aunt Affy sees things through the Bible, mother," said -Judith, speaking her first thought. - -"I know she does." - -"I see a face," began the picture-teller, dropping down on the rug, -and resting her head against the padded arm of the chair. - -"You love faces," was the quick response. - -"And voices, and hands, and hair. This face I see is a _good_ -face--but, then, I do not often see ugly faces--the eyes tell the truth, -the lips tell the truth; perhaps it isn't a handsome face; the -forehead is low, rather square, the eye-brows dark and heavy; the eyes -underneath are a kind of grayish blue, not _blue_ blue, like -mine, and they are looking at me very seriously; the nose is quite a -large nose, and the mouth large, too, with such splendid teeth; the -upper lip is smooth, and the cheeks and chin all shaven; the hair is -blackest black; now the eyes smile, and it looks like another face; I -do not know which face I like better. What is the name of my picture?" - -"Strong and true." - -"That is a good name," said the picture-teller, satisfied, "and who is -it?" - -"Our dear Cousin Don," was the reply with loving intonation. - -"You always guess." - -"Because your pictures are so true. I like to look at people and -places through your eyes." - -Judith smiled, and looking a moment into the fire, began again: "A -fence, an old fence, and a terrace, not green, but rather dried up, -then a lawn, with a horse-chestnut, a big, big horse-chestnut tree on -each side the brick path, and then up three steps to a long piazza: -the house is painted white, with white shutters instead of blinds, and -there are three dormer windows in the roof; these windows make the -third story. I wish I could see inside, but I never did. Perhaps I -shall some day. 'Some day' is my fairyland, and may you be there to -see. That day Cousin Don came to take me walking he took me past the -place; he said some day when you could spare me longer he would take -me in, he wanted me to see the brown girl who lives there; but there -she stood on the piazza, the door was open and she was going in; she -_was_ a brown girl, all in brown with a brown hat and brown -feather; a brown face too--I love browns; she happened to turn and she -tossed a laugh down to Cousin Don. It was a pretty laugh, with -something in it I didn't understand; it was a -laugh--that--didn't--tell--everything. I told Don so. He said: 'Nonsense!' -I don't know what he meant." - -"That was Marion Kenney, and the old house on Summer Avenue," guessed -Judith's mother, who knew the story of the brown girl from Don's -enthusiastic recitals. - -Her mother's voice was more rested; Judith pondered again. - -"That was a city picture; this is a country picture. It is the -beautiful, beautiful country, even if the grass is dead, and the trees -bare; it is the February country in New Jersey; there are clouds, and -clouds, and clouds overhead; and a brook with the sun shining on it, -and a bridge with a stone wall on each side, a little bit of a stone -wall, and stone arches where the water flows through; perhaps it -rushes because the snow is melting so fast; there's a garden with no -flowers in it yet, but there are flower stalks, and bushes, and -bushes; and a path up to the kitchen door, for the garden is down in a -hollow; the kitchen shines, it is so clean, and _smells_, oh, how -it does smell of graham bread, and hot molasses cake, and cup -custards, and apple pie--but we can't _smell_ in a picture," she -laughed. - -"I can--in your pictures," said her mother, echoing the laugh very -softly. - -"And the dearest old sitting-room--Aunt Rody will call it 'the room' as -if it were the only room in the house; there's a rag carpet on the -floor--Aunt Rody _dotes_ on rag carpets; so would I if it were not -for the endless sewing of the rags--and there's a chair with rockers, -and on the top of the back of it a gilded house and trees almost -rubbed off, and on the back a calico cushion tied on with red dress -braid, and a calico cushion in the bottom, and the dearest old lady -sits in it and sews, and talks, and reads the Bible and the magazines; -there's a chair without rockers for the old lady who never rocks or -does easy pleasant things, and hates it when other people, especially -little girls, do any easy pleasant thing; and there's another chair, -like an office chair, with a leather cushion for the dear old man with -a rosy face like a rosy apple, and a bald head on the top, and long -white whiskers that he keeps so nice they shine like silver, and make -you never mind when he wants to kiss you; and there's a high mantel -with a whole world of curious things on it that came out of a hundred -years ago, and a lounge with a shaggy dog on a cushion on one end of -it--how Aunt Rody _lets_ him is a wonder to me--and a round table -with piles of the 'New York Observer' on it. And just now the sweetest -lady in the world in her wine-colored wrapper is lying on the lounge -and the little girl in blue is flying about helping Aunt Affy and Aunt -Rody get supper--O, mother," with a break in her voice, "how I -_ache_ to get you there and take care of you there; Cousin Don -says it is the best place in the world for you and me,--we would grow -fresh and green and send out oxygen like all the green things in -Bensalem. I think I'd like to grow green and send out oxygen." - -"Judith, you and I are always in the best place--for us." - -"Then," said Judith, laughing, "I'd like a place not quite so good for -us--only just as good as Bensalem." - -"When I was a little girl, thirty years ago, the room was just the -same, only Doodles was another Doodles, and Aunt Affy's curls were not -gray, and Uncle Cephas was not bald or white--his whiskers were red -then, and he was there off and on--and the other aunties came and -went--and Aunt Becky died--the friskiest Aunt Becky that ever lived. I -want my little girl to grow up in the dear old house, with not a stain -of the world upon her; I want to think of my little girl there with -Uncle Cephas and Aunt Affy." - -Judith understood; her mother had told her she would be there without -her mother; but that was to be years hence--sorrow was a long, long way -off to-night to the girl who must hope or her heart would break; she -brought her mother's fingers to her lips and kissed them; she did not -worry her mother now-a-days even by kissing her lips or hair. - -Cousin Don said to her that afternoon he took her to walk that she -must not hang over her mother, or kiss the life out of her, and above -all, never cry or moan when she talked about leaving her "alone." -"Nothing makes her so strong as to see you brave," he said, watching -the effect of his caution upon her listening face. - -She had tried to be brave ever since. - -"You can make pictures and see me there, mother," she said brightly, -with a catch in her breath. - -"I do--when I lie awake in the night, and give thanks." - -"Tell me over again about when you were a little girl, there," she -coaxed. - -Over and over again she had listened to the ever-new story of her -mother's childhood and youth in Bensalem; Aunt Rody was the dragon, -Aunt Affy the angel, Uncle Cephas a helper in every difficulty, and -all the village a world where something strange and fascinating was -always happening. - -"It was a very happy home for me when my father died and my mother -took me there; she died before I was twelve; and then twelve years I -was Aunt Affy's girl; then your father took me away," her mother said -with the memory of the years in her voice and eyes. - -"I wonder if somebody will come and take me away, or whether I shall -stay forever and ever like Aunt Affy and Aunt Rody," Judith wondered -in her expectant voice. - -"If somebody comes--if our Father in Heaven sends somebody as good and -gentle and wise as your own father, I shall be glad of it up in -Heaven, I think. You do not remember your father; in his picture he is -like Don--Don is your father's brother's son; your fathers were much -alike. Your father was only a clerk, his salary was never large; Don's -father was a business man, he died rich and left his only son a -fortune; but your father and I never longed for money--Don has always -given me money as his father did; he said you and I had a right to it. -It has never been hard to take money from Don--he will be always kind -to you; he thinks he has a right to you; you are the only children of -the two brothers; they were only two--they never had a sister. Now you -know all about your ancestry on both sides, I think; your grandfather -and grandmother Mackenzie were born in Scotland; they died before you -were born. Aunt Affy will be always telling you about the 'Sparrow -girls.' My mother was a Sparrow girl. Just a year ago we were in that -dear old home." - -"I was twelve then--I had my birthday there; perhaps I shall have -another birthday there in April. Aunt Affy wants us to come so much. I -can take better care of you now because I am older and I must not have -lessons to make you tired; we will have a long vacation; I will only -write poems for you and you needn't even take the trouble to make the -measure right. Aunt Rody said I was a silly baby to be always hanging -about you; but she will see how I have grown up. Don says I am a -little woman. Now I'll tell you a picture. Shut your eyes, again." - -The tear-blinded eyes were shut again; Judith had been looking into -the fire as she talked; she was afraid to look up into her mother's -eyes. It was being brave to look into the fire. - -"I see a room up-stairs, a room with a slanting roof and only one -window; the window looks down into the garden; it has a green paper -shade tied up with a cord; there is a strip of rag-carpet before the -bed, that is all the carpet there is; and there's a funny old -wash-stand with a blue bowl sunk down into a hole on the top, and a -towel on the rail of the wash-stand with a red border--in winter a pipe -comes up in the stove-pipe hole from the big stove in the -sitting-room, but there's ice in the pitcher very often; there's a -bureau with a cracked looking-glass on the top, an old bureau, -everything is old but the little girl kneeling on the rag-carpet rug -beside the bed, with her head on the red and white quilt, saying her -prayers. That little girl is _you_, mother, a sweet, obedient -little girl, that hasn't a will of her own, and tempers, and tantrums -like me." - -"I like to think that sweet little girl is you." - -"Then it _is_ me; I've grown sweet in a hurry," Judith laughed, -"and left all my tempers and tantrums far behind." - -"There's another T to go with them--_temptations_--through which -you grow strong." - -Not seeming to heed, but in reality holding her mother's thought in -her heart Judith ran merrily on: "And I see a church, with a little -green in front, and posts to hitch the horses, the two church doors -are wide open, for in the picture it is Sunday morning; Aunt Rody is -in the head of a pew in the body of the church, and Aunt Affy sits -next, and Uncle Cephas is next the door, and there's a girl between -Aunt Affy and Uncle Cephas, a girl fifteen years old and her hair is -braided, not in long, babyish curls--" - -"Oh, my little girl, wear your curls as long as you can, because -mother loves them," her mother urged, bending forward to touch the -soft, bright hair. - -"Then her hair _is_ curled, and she is trying to be good and -listen. Perhaps she likes sermons--she looks so; in the picture the -sermon is like the Bible stories you tell me when we read together--I -_wish_ ministers told Bible stories. And there's the sweetest -singing; it is like Marion Kenney's singing; she sings like a bird, -Don says; there are girls and boys all over the church, for the -minister in the picture knows how to tell Bible stories to boys and -girls and make them as real as the people and things in Summer Avenue -and Bensalem; just as naughty and just as good. Jean Draper is -there--in the pew behind me. Why, mother," bringing herself back to the -present and turning to look into her mother's face, "Jean Draper was -never in the steam cars, or on a ferry-boat in all her life--she has -never been in New York or any where, only to Dunellen, which they call -'town,' and she walks there, or rides with her father. She wants to go -somewhere as much as I want to go to boarding-school. It's the dream -of her life, as boarding-school is my dream." - -"Aunt Affy and Cousin Don will decide about boarding-school. Cousin -Don and I have talked about it, and I will tell Aunt Affy what I think -about it," her mother decided with an unusual touch of firmness. - -"But I wouldn't leave _you_, mother, for all the boarding-schools -in the world." - -"And I wouldn't let you for all the schools in the world." - -"Well, it's only a dream, like Jean Draper's outing. You like pictures -better than dreams. I think Don's friend, Roger Kenney, is the -minister in the pulpit; Don said he had preached there almost all -winter, coming home every Tuesday--Monday he visits the people. Don is -sure Bensalem will give him a call. Uncle Cephas likes him so much, -and Uncle Cephas is an elder. Now, here's another picture: on the same -side of the street as the church, with only the church-yard and the -locust grove between, it is the dear, dainty Queen Anne parsonage--only -two years old, and so new and pretty; Jean Draper went with me through -it--there was nobody there then--and nobody has lived there all this -year; there's a furnace in the cellar like a city house, and a -bay-window in the study, and a pretty hall with stained-glass windows, -and a cunning kitchen, a cunning sitting-room, and sliding doors into -the parlor, and a piazza in the front, and at the side--and out every -window is the beautiful country. I hope I may go again. Mother, you -like this picture?" she asked earnestly, "that house is another dream -of mine. O, mother," with a comical little cry, "I'm so full of -dreams, I'm full to bursting." - -"I like that picture. I like to think of Don's friend there living a -strong life; he has no worldly ambition. Don says it has been wholly -rooted out of him. He was very fine in college, working beyond his -strength--eaten up with ambition. Then he had an experience; Don said -the fountains of the great deep were broken up in him, and he came out -of it another man--as humble and teachable as any child. Don is afraid -he will go there and be satisfied to stay." - -"Now, here's another face," said Judith, with a new reverence for -Don's friend: "brown eyes, and a brown curly beard, and a brown head, -with laughing eyes, unless he is talking about grave things--he doesn't -make you afraid to be good, but to love to. Still, I am so afraid he -will _talk_ to me some day and ask me questions; I don't know how -to answer questions. Now, you know, I mean Don's friend, Mr. Kenney." - -"Your pictures are very cheery. I hope you may tell some to poor old -Aunt Rody." - -"I shall never dare. She snaps at me. She shuts me up and makes me -forget what I want to say. Her eyes go _through_ me. I don't love -Aunt Rody; I don't _want_ to love Aunt Rody. She doesn't like -baby girls," contended Judith, shaking her yellow head. "She doesn't -like me and Doodles. We are shaggy and a nuisance." - -"You will not always stay a baby girl." - -"No; I want to grow up faster; I wish I might braid my hair. I want to -write books and paint real pictures on canvas to earn money to take -you to Switzerland. I'm sure you would get well in Switzerland. I see -the pictures I would paint, and I think the books; but I am so slow -about it. Sweeping, and washing dishes, and doing errands, do not help -at all," she said with a laugh that had no discouragement in it. - -"They all help. Every obedient thing helps. You must grow up to your -book and your picture; living a sweet, joyous, truthful, obedient life -is growing up to it. The best books and the best pictures are the -expression of the truest and sweetest life; the strongest and wisest -life; am I talking over your head, dear?" - -"No," laughed Judith, "down into my heart." - -"My little girl has been her mother's companion all these years; I -fear I sometimes forget that you are only a little girl. But if you -have grown old, you will grow young. I wish I could find a girl friend -for you. But God knows all the girls in the world, and he will find -one for you. If my daughter remembers all her life but one truth her -mother ever said to her, I hope it may be this: The true life is the -life hid with Christ; no other life _is_ life, it is playing at -life; this life is safe, still, hidden away, growing stronger every -day; the expression of it, the making it speak he will take care of -every hour of the day. You cannot understand this now--my words tell -you so little, but they will come back to you." - -"I will write it down," promised Judith, who loved to write things -down, "and date it February fifteenth. Told in the Firelight. I know -what it means better than I can say it. I often know what things mean, -but I cannot say it." - -"Any more pictures?" suggested her mother, in a voice as bright as -Judith's own. - -"An old face with pink cheeks and a long gray curl behind each ear, -the softest step and the kindest voice--but I always forget and put -sounds in my pictures. Those sounds are always in my picture of Aunt -Affy." - -"You have not made a picture of Aunt Rody." - -"I don't like to tell a picture of Aunt Rody. She is so old, so -old--and she isn't happy--and I don't believe she's good. If it were not -for Aunt Rody I should think all old people were good; that all you -had to do to be good was to grow up and grow old." - -"She is not happy. Once, years and years ago, so long ago that almost -everybody has forgotten, she had a bitter disappointment." - -"What was it about, mother?" asked the girl, who always wove a -love-story into the stories she planned as she stepped about the -kitchen, or darned and mended the household wear. - -"She was ready to be married--she learned that the man she loved--and -Aunt Rody _could_ love in those days--was a very, very bad man; he -deceived her; it did not break her heart, or soften it; it made it -hard. Unless we forgive, our hearts grow hard; she could not forgive; -she has said that she does not know how to forgive. Only in forgiving -do our hearts grow like God's heart. He is always forgiving." - -"I forgave somebody once," remembered Judith; "mother," with a start, -"I do not always forgive Aunt Rody when she is ugly to me; if I do not -will I have a hard heart?" - -"Yes. That spot toward Aunt Rody will grow harder and harder. You -cannot love God with the part of your heart that does not forgive." - -"Oh, deary _me_," groaned Judith, springing up. "Will you like -milk-toast to-night? And prunes? Don says I know how to cook prunes." - -"Perhaps he will come to supper." - -"Then he must have a chop. Mother, I like to keep house. It's easy. -It's easier than forgiving," she said, with her merry little laugh, -and a deep-down heartache. - - - - -II. SQUARE ROOT AND OTHER THINGS. - - - "Let never day or night unhallowed pass; - But still remember what the Lord hath done." - - --Shakespeare. - -"Judith, would you like to go up to Lottie's room for an hour?" - -Judith's mother was still sitting before the grate with her feet -lifted to the fender; the tall figure of Donald Mackenzie stood behind -the wheel chair, bending, with his folded arms upon the back of the -chair. - -"Yes, mother," replied the voice from the kitchen, a busy, -pre-occupied voice. - -Don had wiped the dishes for her, brought up coal, taken down ashes, -and declared that his three chops were the finest he had ever eaten. - -"Lottie and her books just went up," said Judith standing in the -door-way, and untying her kitchen apron. "Don, will you call me when -you go?" - -"Yes, Bluebird; I can stay but an hour; I have to call for Miss -Marion; she has gone to a King's Daughters' meeting, and I told her I -would stop on my way home; I have to pass the house," he explained in -reply to an impatient movement in the wheel chair. Judith went out -softly and ran lightly up the stairway. - -"Aunt Hilda," began the penitent voice above Aunt Hilda's head, "I -have come to confess." - -"Don, I wish I had warned you." - -"Why didn't you?" he asked, miserably. - -"Because I thought you had common sense." - -"It is a case of common sense." - -Judith's fingers tapped lightly on the third story door. - -"Come in," called a girlish voice. - -"Are you studying? May I stay and study too?" - -"You are always ahead of me," grumbled Lottie. - -"Because I take longer lessons, and mother has no one else to teach. -But she was tired to-day, and I couldn't ask her about that dreadful -thing in square root. Did you find out?" - -"Yes, and it's as easy as mud." - -Both girls laughed. - -"Bensalem mud isn't easy; you think you are going through to China -every spring when the roads are bad." - -Judith had brought her pencil and pad; for half an hour the girls put -their heads together over square root; then Lottie Kindare threw her -book across the small room to the bed. - -"Judith, I know something new to tell you; Grace Marvin told me to-day -at recess, and once it came true. I'll show you." - -On the lowest shelf of the little book-case Lottie found her Bible; it -was dusty, but she did not notice that. - -With their chairs very near together, the Bible in Lottie's lap, the -girls sat silent a moment; Judith's luminous eyes were filled with -expectation. - -"Now wish for what you want most," commanded Lottie, impressively. - -"I wish most of all for mother to be strong enough to go to Bensalem -with Aunt Affy when she comes next week." - -Lottie colored and looked uncomfortable; this evening before she came -up stairs, her mother had told her that the doctor had stopped down -stairs to say that Mrs. Mackenzie must be urged to make no effort to -go into the country; it was too late. - -"Not that; something else," said Lottie, impatiently, "not such a -serious thing." - -"But I want that _most_," said Judith, piteously. - -"Then choose what you want second." - -"Then I want second to go to boarding-school." - -"That's good," exclaimed Lottie relieved, "now, shut your eyes and -open the Bible and put your finger down, and if it touches: '_And it -came to pass_,' it _will_ come to pass." - -"How queer," said Judith delighted, "what an easy way to find out -things. I wish I had known it before." - -"So do I, for then I might have known that I _couldn't_ have had -a navy blue silk for Christmas; and I hoped for it until the very -day." - -Without any misgiving, Judith closed her eyes and opened the Bible; -her heart beat fast, her fingers trembled; she dared not open her eyes -and see. - -"No, you haven't your wish," said Lottie's disappointed voice; "it -reads: 'And a cubit on one side, and a cubit on the other side'--that's -dreadful and horrid; I'm so sorry, Ju." - -So was Judith; sorry and frightened. - -"Now, I'll try. I wish for a gold chain like Grace Marvin's," she -said, bravely. Judith looked frightened; but what was there to be -afraid of? It was not like fortune-telling; it was the _Bible_. - -Judith watched her nervously; she was disappointed if it said in the -Bible that she could never go to boarding-school; but, oh, how glad -she was that she had not asked the Bible if her mother would ever be -strong enough to go to Bensalem. She could not have borne nothing but -a cubit about that. She would hate a "cubit" after this. - -"There!" cried Lottie jubilantly, "I have it. See." - -Over the fine print near Lottie's finger, Judith bent and read: -"_And it came to pass_." - -"Isn't that splendid?" said Lottie, "but I wish you had got it. Do you -want to try again?" - -"No," hesitated Judith, "it frightens me, and I'm afraid it's wicked." - -"Wicked," laughed Lottie, "how can it be wicked?" - -"I cannot explain how--but I'm sure mother would not like it." - -"But your mother is so particular," explained Lottie, "everybody -isn't. She thinks there's a right and wrong to everything." - -"But _isn't_ there?" persisted Judith. - -"No," contended Lottie boldly, but with a fear at her heart; "there -isn't about this. This is right." - -"I hope it is," said Judith, brightening. - -"We tried it at noon recess one day, and John Kenney came and looked -on. He didn't say what he thought." - -"Who is John Kenney?" - -"The brightest and handsomest boy in the High School. He's up head in -Latin and everything. He was at my New Year's Eve party. Don't you -remember? He sang college songs." - -"He's the big boy that found a chair for me, and gave me ice cream the -second time. I shall always remember _him_," said Judith, -fervently. "I did not know his name; when I think about him, I call -him John. John is my favorite name for a man; it has a strong sound, a -generous sound, and I like the color of it." - -"The _color_," repeated Lottie, amazed. - -"Don't names have color and sound to you?" asked Judith, surprised. -"John is the deepest crimson to me, a glowing crimson. John belongs to -self-sacrifice and generous deeds. John is a hero and a saint." - -Lottie laughed noisily. Judith was the queerest girl. Her -_things_ were always getting mixed up with _thoughts_. -Lottie did not care for thoughts. School, dress, parties, -Sunday-school, summer vacations, John Kenney, dusting and making cake, -jolly times with her father, and home times and making calls with her -mother, were only "things" to this girl of fifteen; if there were -"thoughts" in them, she missed the thoughts. She was daring and -handsome; Judith admired her because she was so different from -herself. - -"I don't believe my mother would care," said Lottie, honestly, as she -laid her Bible in its place upon her book-shelf. - -"But your mother is different," pleaded Judith. - -"Yes, my mother is well; I suppose that makes the difference." - -With a sigh over her disappointment, for, somehow, she thought the -Bible could not be wrong, Judith went back to pad and pencil and -another hard example in square root. - -"Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home," chanted Don's voice in the hall -below. - -"He has a different name for you every time," said Lottie. "Don't tell -your mother if it will worry her." - -"I never tell her things that worry her," replied Judith; "I've been -waiting three months to tell her that I have burnt a hole in the front -of my red cashmere and do not know how to mend it. When I go to -Sunday-school she sees me with my coat on, and after Sunday-school I -hurry and put on a white apron." - -With her arithmetic and pad, and a very grave face, Judith hastened -down stairs. - -"Your mother is full of hope about Bensalem," comforted cousin Don; "I -have said good-bye, for I expect to sail for Genoa on Saturday. She -gave me your photograph to take with me. I will write to you at -Bensalem; and if anybody ever hurts you, write to me quick and I'll -come home and slay them with my little hatchet." - -"Are you going--so soon?" she asked, in an unchildish way; "what will -mother do without you?" - -"She will have you and Aunt Affy. I wasn't going so soon, but I found -it is better. Kiss your cousin Don." - -"Shall you stay _long_?" - -"Long enough to go to London to buy me a wife," he laughed; "kiss your -cousin Don." - -She kissed her cousin Don with eyes so filled with tears that she did -not see the tears in his eyes. The street door fastened itself behind -him; in the quiet street she heard his quick step on the pavement. - -Her mother was sitting in the firelight with her head resting upon her -hand. - -"Mother, Don's _gone_," burst out Judith. - -"Yes, for a while. He will never forget his little cousin." - -"Genoa is a long way off." - -"Only a few days' travel. It is good for him to go. He is engaged to -do some work on a paper, and he has always desired to see the world -afoot. It is good for him," Don's Aunt Hilda repeated. - -"But it isn't good for us, mother." - -"I hope it is not bad for us.--But I would be glad for him not to -go--just yet," she sighed. - -"Will Miss Marion, his brown girl, like it?" inquired Judith, -unexpectedly. - -"She is not--why do you say that?" - -"I don't know, I saw her; I shouldn't _think_ he would like to go -and leave us all," said Don's little cousin, chokingly, keeping back -the tears. - -"He has a heartache to-night, poor boy. Now, little nurse, mother's -tired. We will have prayer and go early to bed." - - - - -III. "WAS THIS THE END?" - - - "The worst is not - So long as we can sing: _This is the worst_." - - --Shakespeare. - -The two parlors were swept and dusted; Marion Kenney enjoyed the -Friday sweeping; she stood in the center of the back parlor, -cheese-cloth duster in hand, taking a satisfied survey of the two -comfortable, old-fashioned rooms. - -"Well, you _are_ picturesque!" exclaimed a voice from the doorway of -the back parlor. - -With all her twenty-one years, Marion Kenney was girlish enough to -give a swift, shy look the length of the rooms to the long mirror -between the windows in the front parlor. But picturesque was -only--picturesque. - -"I don't see what a girl has to dress herself in furbelows for," he -went on, ardently, and with evident embarrassment, "when there's -nothing more becoming than the housekeeping costume; you are as -bewitching in that red sweeping-cap as in your most fashionable -headgear." - -"I like my morning dresses, too," she said, with a flutter of breath -and color, "perhaps because I'm nothing but a humdrum girl at home." - -"The humdrum girl is getting to be the girl of the age," he ran on, -his words tumbling over each other in the desire to say, for once in -his life, the least harmful thing; "all her education tends to bring -her down, or up, to the humdrum, if you mean the hum of housekeeping -ways. With a sensible education, literary and musical tastes (not -talents), a sweet temper, a pretty manner, and the tact that brings -out the best in a man, if that is humdrum"--he broke off abruptly, for -he had kindled a light in her face that he had no right to see. - -"Have I told you about my little cousin Judith? But I know I have. -She's a womanly little thing--too womanly. She's the sweetest prophecy -of a woman. Oh, I remember I promised to take you to see my Aunt -Hilda. But that's another thing to be laid over. If I live to keep all -my promises I shall live forever." - -"Don't say that," she urged, "you are not just to yourself. That is -the only promise you have failed to keep to me, and there's time -enough for that." - -"I fear not," he answered, seriously, "she is going away, and so am -I." - -He came to her and laid the photograph in her hand. - -"Oh, how sweet!" was Marion's quick exclamation. - -"It _is_ sweet; but she is better than sweet; she has courage." - -"The eyes are too sad for such a girl--how old is she?" - -"Nearly thirteen. I took her to New York for a day's outing, and we -had the picture taken. She was anxious about leaving her mother so -long; the people in the house were with Aunt Hilda, but Lottie, the -girl in the house, is a flighty thing, and Judith was not trusting -her. I saw the look, but I couldn't hinder it. It will go about -through Europe with me. Did Roger tell you last night--I asked him -to--that I'm off for my long-talked-of tour around the world?" - -"_No_," replied Marion, startled out of her self-command. - -"Perhaps he came home late. I wanted to prepare you. It is not so -sudden in my thoughts. But I always do things suddenly after years of -thinking about them. My father wanted me to do this. He said if I were -not careful, money and literary tastes would make me an idle dog. That -set of Ruskin in my room I have left for you. You have made my winter -here so home-like, so refreshingly 'humdrum,' that I don't know how to -thank you. When Roger begged me to come Thanksgiving Day I feared that -I would be one too many, but you all took me in so naturally that I -feel as if I had grown up in your old house with you and Roger. It's -awfully hard to go, now I've come to the point; somehow I hated my -ticket as soon as I took it into my hand. But I knew Aunt Hilda and -Judith were going to Bensalem, and I cannot be with them there. -But--you will write to me?" he asked, pausing in his rush of words. - -He had vowed that he would not speak of letters, but the unconscious -appeal of her attitude, the look that he felt in the eyes that could -not lift themselves had given his heart an ache, that, the next -instant, he hated her for making him feel. What right had she to hold -him so? He was Roger's friend. He had only been kind, and frank and -considerate toward her, and grateful, because she had touched his life -with a touch like healing--he was a better fellow than he was last -winter; he had told her one confidential Sunday twilight that he -almost wanted to be a Christian. - -"When will you--come back?" she faltered, speaking her uppermost -thought. - -"Oh, I don't know," he answered, roughly. "They may keep me there -years, if I do well for the paper--or I may study there--Judith and her -mother may bring me home--I have promised Aunt Hilda to take Judith for -my sister; that is a rousing responsibility for a bachelor like me. I -have been near them this winter, which was one of my reasons for -coming here. Now I think of it, perhaps it would have been better if I -had never come." - -"_I think it would._" - -The slow, impressive words uttered themselves. She heard them as if -another voice had spoken them. They told the whole truth, the whole, -terrible, sorrowful truth, and he knew it. - -"Good-bye," she said, with a flash of defiance. - -"Good-bye," he said, not seeing the hand held firmly toward him. - -"I will not write to you--you have no right to ask it." - -"No, I have not," he answered humbly, "I have no right to anything; -not even to ask you to become my wife." - -She lifted her proud eyes; her lips framed the words that her tongue -refused to speak. - -"I beg your pardon. I hardly know what I said." - -"It is hardly necessary to tell me that." - -"And you will not write to me?" - -"No." - -"I am unhappy enough," he blundered, "I never thought our happy winter -would end like this. I did not mean it to end like this." - -It was ended then. She herself had ended it. He would never hear the -new music she was practicing for him; they would not read together the -"Essays of Elia" he had given her last week; she could never tell him-- - -"I must catch the next train; Roger and I have a farewell dinner in -New York to-day. Old fellow, I'm sorry to leave him. I suppose when I -return I shall find him rusting out in Bensalem; for he's determined -to go there against all the arguments I can bring up. Good-bye, -Marion." - -"Good-bye," she said, again, allowing her fingers to stay a moment in -his hand. - -"God bless you, dear." - -She remembered the blessing afterward; afterward, she remembered, too: -"and forgive me." Or did she imagine that? Why should he say that? How -had he hurt her? He had only been like Roger. - -She had said--what did she say that he should ask her to become his -wife when he had not once thought of it all winter--when he was going -away for years without thinking of it. - -In her bewilderment she could not recall the terrible and true words -she herself had spoken, she imagined them to be beyond everything more -dreadful than she would dare think; they burned her through and -through, these words that had said themselves. Were they hurting him -every hour as they were hurting her? - -Impetuous she knew herself to be; frank to a fault Roger plainly told -her that she was; often and often her outbursts were to her own -heart-breaking; but nothing before had she ever done like this; there -was no excuse for this, no healing; he would despise her as long as he -lived, and she would have no power ever to forget. - -Shame that he understood, that he had all the time understood, was -burning her up like a fever; that he was gone she was unfeignedly -glad, that she might see his dear face no more, she sometimes prayed. -Still, with it all, her life went on as usual; the errands down town, -the calls, her Sunday-school class, her King's Daughters' meetings, -her regular hours for practice, the cake-making, the sweeping, she -even began to read one of the volumes of Ruskin she found on the table -in his chamber, with her name and his initials written in each book; -her life went on, her life with the heart gone out of it; her life -went on, but herself seemed staying behind somewhere. - -It was a relief that Roger was away a part of every week, Roger, whom -nothing escaped; the others saw nothing,--she believed there was -nothing for them to see. - - - - -IV. BENSALEM. - - - All service ranks the same with God; - If now, as formerly he trod - Paradise, his presence fills - Our earth, each only as God wills - Can work. - - --Robert Browning. - -In large black letters the word Post Office stared down the Bensalem -street from the end door of a small white house. A plump lady in gray -pushed open the door; the bell over the door sharply announced her -entrance; she stepped into the tiny room; straight before her a door -was shut, at her right were rows of glass pigeonholes with numerals -pasted upon them; no head was visible at the window the pigeonholes -surrounded; while she stood ready to tap upon the closed door that led -into the sitting-room, the sound of a horn clear and loud gave her a -start and betrayed her into a quick exclamation: "Why, deary me. What -next?" - -"Come in here, come in here," called a shaky voice from the other side -of the closed door. - -She pushed the door open, to be confronted by the figure of an old man -lying in bed with a tin horn in his hand. - -"Come right in, Miss Affy," the old man said cheerfully; "I've got one -of my dreadful rheumatic days and can't twist myself out of bed; I've -had my bed down here for a week now. I've got all the mail in bed with -me. Sarah had to go out and milk and feed the chickens, so she brought -the few letters and papers that were left over in here for me to take -care of. Doctor says I'll be about in a week or so, if he can keep the -fever down. I never had rheumatic _fever_ before. Nobody comes this -time of day for letters. Nothing happens about five o'clock excepting -feeding the chickens. Sarah milks earlier than most folks so as to -tend the mail, when the stage gets in. She went out earlier than usual -to-day because she forgot the little chickens at noon. She just put -her head in to say she had taken a new brood off. Do sit down a -minute. Didn't Mr. Brush tell you I had rheumatic fever? Sarah must -have told him when he came for his paper, night before last. She tells -everybody. I blew the horn to call Sarah in, but I don't believe -she'll come until she gets ready. The mail doesn't mean anything to -her excepting getting our pay regular. There's all the letters on the -foot of the bed; you can pick yours out. Sarah said you had a letter, -and she guessed it was from your niece, Mrs. Mackenzie, or her little -girl. Yes, that's it. Mr. Brush's paper is there, too." - -The plump lady in gray, with a long gray curl behind each ear, picked -among the letters and papers at the foot of the untidy bed, and found -a letter in a pretty hand addressed to Miss Affy S. Sparrow, and a -newspaper bearing the printed label, Cephas Brush. - -"That is all," remarked the Bensalem postmaster; "never mind fixing -them straight; I get uneasy and tumble them around." - -"I will sit here and read the letter, if I may." - -"Oh, yes, do. I haven't heard any news to-day." - -"I'm afraid I haven't brought you any," said Miss Affy, "and you will -not care for my letter." - -"Oh, yes, I shall," he answered, eagerly. "I was wishing I could read -all the letters to amuse me. I did read Mr. Brush's paper. I tucked it -all back smooth; I knew he wouldn't care." - -"He will call and bring you papers," promised Miss Affy, tearing open -the envelope with a hair-pin. - -"I wish he _would_. And a book, too. I wanted Sarah to take my book -back to the library to-day, and get another to read to-night if I -can't sleep, but she said she hadn't time; and, she can't now, because -there's supper and the mail coming in," he groaned. "I had an awful -night last night; and if it hadn't been for 'Tempest and Sunshine,' I -don't know how I should have got through it." - -"That was enough for one night," laughed the lady at the window -reading the letter. "I will try to find you something better than that -for to-night." - -"Will you go to the library for me? That's just like you, Miss Affy." - -"Yes, I will go. If I cannot find anything I like I will call -somewhere else. There should be books enough in Bensalem to help you -through the night." - -"Is your letter satisfactory?" he questioned, curiously, as she -slipped it back into the envelope. - -"Mrs. Mackenzie is very feeble; she wishes to come to Bensalem for the -change, and asks me to go and bring her and Judith." - -"But you and Miss Rody will not want the trouble of sick folks." - -"We want _her_," said Miss Affy, rising; "I will leave your book in -the post-office, Mr. Gunn, so you need not blow the horn when you hear -me open the door." - -"But it may not be _you_; how shall I know?" - -"True enough. Blow your horn, then." - -"You can _look_ in if it's you, and Sarah isn't there." - -"Where is the book to take back?" - -"'Tempest and Sunshine.' Oh, Sarah hasn't finished it yet. I forgot -that," he said disappointedly. "She read it yesterday and gave me -nothing but bread and milk for supper, and I wanted pork and eggs. She -was on it long enough to finish," he grumbled. - -"No matter, then. I'll get one for myself. It will be the first book I -have taken from the library." - -"And you such a reader, too. How many magazines do you take? I'd like -some of your old magazines while I'm laid up." - -"Mr. Brush will bring you a big bundle. But I will go to the library -now, for he may not wish to bring them to-night." - -The school library was kept at the house of one of the school -trustees; the errand gave Miss Affy another quarter of a mile to walk, -and it also gave her the opportunity of a call upon Nettie Evans, -whose small home was next door to the school-library. Cephas Brush had -told her that she knew how to kill more birds with one stone than any -woman he knew. - -She walked past the syringa bushes of the school trustee's front yard, -and knocked on the front door with the big brass knocker; there was no -response excepting the sound of rubbing and splash of water that came -through the open kitchen window. Miss Affy knocked the second time -with more determined fingers. It was a pity to take Mrs. Finch from -her washing, but it would be more of a pity to let that old man toss -in pain and groan for a book to read. As she gave the second knock she -wondered if his lamp were safely arranged, and if the reading by -lamp-light did not injure his eyes; she would look for a book with -good type. - -The kitchen door was quickly opened, a woman with rolled-up sleeves -and dripping, par-boiled fingers called out pleasantly: "Why don't you -come to this door?" - -"Excuse me, Mrs. Finch," said Miss Affy, walking past another syringa -bush, "I came to the Circulating Library." - -"The Circulating Library is where I am. I keep it in the kitchen, -because I cannot circulate about my work to attend it," replied Mrs. -Finch, extending a hospitable wet hand; "You see I'm late to-day; -usually my washing is all out at eleven o'clock. But his folks came to -dinner, three of them, unexpectedly--Monday, too, and I had to spring -around and cook a dinner; the Sunday left-overs wouldn't do. They -didn't leave the house until half-past two, so I had to leave the -dinner dishes, piled them up in the shed, under a pan, and put on my -boiler again. It don't often happen, and I put a good face on it." - -"You turn a very cheery face toward life, Mrs. Finch." - -"Well, I try to. It's all I've got to give anyway;" Mrs. Finch -replied, removing the cover from the boiler and poking at the clothes -with a long clothes-stick; the steam rolled out the door and windows; -as the room was cleared, Miss Affy discovered a high mahogany bureau -with brass rings, the top of which was covered with books in neat -piles. - -"You are welcome to look at the books and take one. I wish you -_would_ sit down, Miss Affy, I can talk while I work. I wish I might -stay and wash the dishes for you." - -Miss Affy prayed every day, "Use me, Lord, any way, any where." - -"With that dress on?" said Mrs. Finch, regarding the new spring suit -with favor. "I couldn't help looking at you in church, if it _was_ -Sunday, and thinking that you looked sweet enough to be a bride." - -"Thank you. I am fond of this dress," replied Miss Affy in her simple, -sweet way. - -"When you are married, you must be married in gray. I was married in -white. Thirty years ago." - -"I remember it," said Miss Affy, "Cephas and I were there." - -"Don't think about the dishes. It's just like you." - -"I would more than think about them, but I must call on Nettie, and -then I promised to read awhile to Mrs. Trembly; she is more blind than -she was, and Agnes breaks her heart because she cannot find more time -to read to her and amuse her." - -"They should come before dishes. People first, I say. That's why I'm -behind with my washing. People first, I say to Jonas, and he looks -scornful. But it will pay some day." - -"You have not a catalogue?" - -"A seed catalogue? We've never had a call for that. I thought -everybody had one." - -"So we have, dozens. I meant a catalogue of the books. I would like to -know what our boys and girls are reading." - -"Grown people, too. Everybody reads the books. Every time Mr. Gunn is -laid up he is crazy for books. Look them over; lots of them are out. -No matter how you put them back, if you only pile them up." - -"But you have a book in which to put down my name and the number of -the book I take." - -"Oh, no; take any you like. I couldn't be bothered that way. We expect -new books. The last entertainment the school children had was to raise -money for books. We don't get anything for keeping the books, but -Jonas is the greatest reader that ever was; he has read them all. But -I never have time. I don't know what is in any of them." - -"Your husband knows. I am glad he reads them. Our young people must be -taken care of. Books have been everything to me. These books are an -influence in Bensalem." - -"I hope so," replied the keeper of the books, not thinking for an -instant that they could be otherwise than a good influence. - -"Excuse me if I go on with my work; that is the last boiler-full." - -"I would not stay if I interrupted you," said Miss Affy. "I may take -considerable time, for I want to know what our boys and girls are -reading. I know every book in the Sunday-school library, but I had -forgotten that Bensalem boasted a public school library." - -After a half-hour's search, Miss Affy's choice was made; the type of -the book was not large enough for the old man's reading at night, but -the story was excellent: "Samuel Budget, the Successful Merchant." - -"I'm sorry about the type," she said, "but it is better than the -newspapers." - -"The type? Is that the name of the story?" questioned the woman at the -wash-tub. - -"The print I should say. Thank you for letting me come. But I am sorry -to leave those dishes." - -"Don't be sorry. My kitchen will be very sweet when the syringas are -out. And don't think I'm always so late with my washing. It was all -his folks." - -"How is Nettie these days?" - -"Miserable enough. She doesn't know how to get outside of her poor -little self. But then, who of us does, until we are _pulled_ out?" she -asked, with cheerful philosophy, as Miss Affy went away past the -syringa bushes. - -Miss Affy spent an hour in Nettie Evans's chamber, telling the little -girl stories about her great-niece, Judith Mackenzie, who lived in the -city with her dear, sick mother, and they both were soon coming to -Bensalem, and Judith would love to visit her often, and Judith told -stories, that were worth telling; last summer in the evenings, in -Summer Avenue, she had a dozen boys and girls on the steps, listening -to her stories continued from one evening to another. Nettie's white -face grew glad, and in the night she was comforted by the thought of -the coming of the story-teller. Then Miss Affy crossed the street to -the one-story yellow house and read from a Sunday-school library-book -to blind Mrs. Trembly, whose only daughter had little time to spare -her mother from her housekeeping and dressmaking, and on her way home, -stopped at the Post-office with "Samuel Budget." - -At the supper table, she remarked to Cephas and her sister Rody: "I do -hope our new minister will have a good wife. Bensalem needs the -ministry of a woman--a real deaconess." - -"As if you weren't one," said Cephas, with admiration in his eyes. - -"But I'm not the minister's wife." - -"Nor anybody else's," retorted Aunt Rody, sharply, with a look at the -bald-headed, white-whiskered man opposite her at the foot of the -table. The look passed over him instead of going through him, as he -gave a laugh, a contented laugh that hurt Aunt Rody, even more than -she had intended her look to hurt him. - -Those two would circumvent her some day; the longer she lived the more -sure she was of it, and the more would it cut her to the quick. Every -year she fought against it (if one can fight with no antagonist), the -more rebelliously she was set against it. There was but one hope for -her: that she would outlive one of them; she hoped to outlive both of -them. - - - - -V. DAILY BREAD AND DAILY WILL. - - - "We walk by faith and not by sight." - - "Creatures of reason do not necessarily become - unreasonable when they consent to walk by faith; nor - do creatures of trust necessarily become faithless - when they are gladdened in a walk by sight." - -Judith sat in the bay-window with a book in her lap; a box of books -had come by express to Miss Judith G. Mackenzie the very day her -Cousin Don sailed for Genoa; they were books written for children; -they were all Judith's own. - -With the light of the sunset in her face, Judith sat reading Jean -Ingelow's "Stories Told to a Child." - -"O mother, it is too splendid for anything," she exclaimed; "when you -are rested I will read it to you." - -"Is your ironing all done?" - -"Yes, mother." - -"And Aunt Affy's bed made?" - -"All made. Mrs. Kindare put up the cot herself and lent me two -blankets. It is a cunning room; Aunt Affy will like it; Mrs. Kindare -said she could spare the room better than not, and Aunt Affy may stay -a month, waiting until we can go home with her." - -"Put away your book, dear; and come and sit on the rug close to me. I -want to be all alone with my little girl once more before Aunt Affy -comes." - -Reluctantly Judith closed the book; she remembered afterward that she -thought she would rather finish the story than go and sit on the rug -and talk to her mother. - -"Mother," she began, as brightly as though a minute ago she had not -wished to finish the story first, "Don might have stayed with us all -winter and had that room to sleep in." - -"Yes, I thought of that. It would have made a difference in somebody's -life." - -"Whose life?" Judith questioned. - -"In his own," replied her mother, "and other people's. I did not -intend to speak my thought aloud." - -The sunset was in the room: it was over Judith, and over her mother. - -"Was he sorry he did not come here?" Judith persisted. - -"I think he was. He said we would have made him so comfortable. He -would have taken his meals with Mrs. Kindare." - -"Are you sorry, too?" - -"No--not exactly. If it were a mistake, it will be taken care of--it is -very queer to trust God with our sins and not with our mistakes." - -"I made a 'mistake' that night he was here, mother; I did not mean to -make a sin." - -"Tell me, dear." - -"I thought I would never tell. I was afraid it would worry you. But I -cried after I went to bed. You will think me naughty and silly." - -"Do I ever?" - -"Yes, oh, yes," smiled Judith, "you always do every time I am." - -"I could not lie down in peaceful sleep to-night if I believed that my -little daughter kept a thought in her heart she would rather not tell -her mother." - -"But I shouldn't keep silly thoughts in my heart." - -"That is what mothers are for--to hear all the silly things." - -"Then I'll tell you," decided Judith, bringing herself from a lounging -posture, upright, and yet not touching her mother's knees; "that night -Lottie said there was a good way to find out what would happen to you -next--to wish for a thing and shut your eyes and open the Bible and put -your hand on a verse, and if it said _And it came to pass_ you would -certainly have it. We both did it, and she got her wish and I didn't -get mine. My heart was heavy, for I was afraid you wouldn't like it as -soon as I did it." - -"I do not like it. But I am glad you did it." - -"Why, _mother_!" - -"Because I can talk to you about something I might never have thought -about." - -"I like _that_," said Judith, comforted; "I hope Cousin Don's mistake -will be good for him." - -"It is already. What do you want to know about yourself?" - -"Things that will happen, grown-up things. I make castles about -grown-up things. When I make an air-castle I am never a little girl, -but a big girl, fifteen or eighteen, and that kind of things happen; -the kind of things that happen to girls in books. Is that silly?" - -"No; it is only not wise. It spoils to-day, and to-day is too good to -be spoiled. God has made to-day for us, and we slight his gift by -passing it by and trying to find out the things that will happen to us -to-morrow. Suppose you would not read the children's books Cousin Don -sent you, but coax him to give you grown-up books." - -"I couldn't be so mean," said Judith warmly. - -"But questions do come to us, wonders about our grown-up time. Is it -not trusting God more to wait for His answers?" - -"Oh, yes, I _am_ waiting--unless I can find a way--like that way--to find -out." - -"That is not God's way; he never told us to find out his will that -way. When he said, 'And it came to pass,' it was about something that -had happened, not about something that will happen; and about someone -else, and not about you. The Bible was not written to tell us such -things." - -"But I didn't know that really," said Judith, miserable, and ready to -cry. - -"That was a mistake, not a sin. We all make mistakes before we know -better. If you should do so again, it would be a sin, because now you -know better." - -"But people did cast lots in Bible times. Don't you know about finding -out about another disciple to make up the twelve after Judas killed -himself? I read that to you this morning." - -"Yes, I remember that. Casting lots was one of God's ways in old times -to discover his will. The lot was cast into the lap, and the disposal -thereof was of the Lord. They knew God was willing for them to -cast lots." - -"Yes," said Judith, in her intelligent voice. - -"And this, I just thought of it. That time about choosing another -disciple was the last time. After the Holy Spirit was given there was -no need; the Holy Spirit always reveals the will of God." - -Judith's eyes grew dull; she could not understand; she felt dimly that -she had done wrong in not trusting God to tell her about her "wish" in -his own way. - -"Whenever, in all your life to come, a question about your future -comes to you, a longing to know about something that may happen to -you, or may not happen--but I should not say that; I should say about -something God may will to give you, or may will to keep from you, say -this to yourself: I need not think about it; God knows all about it, -for he _makes_ it; he will tell me as soon as he wants me to know." - -"Yes," said Judith, with a child's confidence. - -"After that, it would be not only 'silly,' but faithless to think -about it. Every day brings its own answer; your daily bread and God's -daily will come together; his bread gives us strength to do his will. -Will mother's little girl remember?" - -"Yes," said Judith gravely; "and when you see me forgetting you must -remind me. Will it be wrong if I say 'daily will' when I say 'daily -bread'?" - -"Not wrong," answered her mother, smiling, "only that it comes in the -prayer before daily bread." - -"Does it?" - -"Repeat it and see." - -Judith repeated: "Our Father, who art in heaven; Hallowed be thy name; -Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven; give -us this day our daily bread--Why, so it does. But I didn't put them -together before." - -"The _will_ comes first. If we do his will, he will not forget the -things we long for every day. Love his will better than your own will -and wishes." - -"That's hard," said Judith, "I don't know how." - -"That is what you are in the world for, _to learn how_." - -Judith arose and stood before the grate with sweet, grave, troubled -eyes. - -The yellow hair, the innocent face, the blue dress, the loving touch -of lips and fingers, the growing into girlhood; how could she give -them up and go? - -"O, mother, mother!" cried Judith, turning at the sound of a stifled -cry, "Are you worse? What shall I do?" then in a tone of quick, -astonished joy, "Oh, here's Aunt Affy at the door!" - - - - -VI. THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. - - - "What's the best thing in the world? - Something out of it, I think." - - --Elizabeth Barrett Browning. - -From Genoa there came a note to Marion:-- - - "Dear friend Marion: - - To-day's mail brings me saddest and most unexpected news. I - believed my Aunt Hilda would live years; I would not have left - her had I thought she would be taken so soon. She died in - Summer Avenue before she could be taken to Bensalem. Judith - has written herself, the bravest child's letter. She is in - Bensalem with two old aunts of her mother. - - Roger hopes to have you for his housekeeper; you will be near - Judith; will you take her under your wing? Her mother - especially wished her not to go to boarding-school. She has - always been a child of promise; she may fizzle out as - promising children do and become only an ordinary girl; but - she will always be sweet and brave, which is better than being - brilliant. One sweet woman is worth a thousand brilliant ones; - that is the reason there are so many more sweet ones. I would - change my plans and return for her sake, but what can a - bachelor cousin do for her? She will be sheltered from harmful - influences in Bensalem. She will write me regularly. I have - written to Roger about her money affairs. - - Your friend, - Don." - -In reply Marion wrote the briefest note:-- - - "Dear friend Don: - - I will do my best for Judith. - - Yours truly, - Marion." - -"It will be the best thing in the world for Marion," replied the voice -of Marion's mother. - -"There is no best thing in the world for Marion," Marion told herself -wearily, rising from the back parlor sofa, where she had thrown -herself to be alone, and stepping softly across the room to the door. - -To be alone in the dark was the best thing in the world for her; to be -alone in the dark forever. For something had happened to her that had -never happened to any girl before. With a light tread she went up -stairs: she would not have her mother know that she had overheard the -remark made to her father--her mother could not know all, only herself -and Don Mackenzie knew her cruel secret; he would never tell, not even -Roger, and she could sooner die than let the words pass her lips to -any human creature. Girls had gone through terrible things before; but -no girl ever had gone through this; no girl could, unless she were -like herself, and no girl was like herself, so impetuous, so headlong, -so frank that frankness became a sin. - -In her own chamber she found the darkness and solitude she craved; the -darkness and solitude she thought she would crave forever. The voices -in the front parlor went on low and steadily, planning a best thing -for Marion for whom no best was possible. - -"Yes, it will certainly be a good thing," her father answered in a -relieved tone; "she hasn't been herself since Donald Mackenzie went -away." - -"I was afraid when he came," was the low uttered response. - -"Mothers are always afraid," returned the father, who had urged his -coming. - -"But I was specially afraid; Don is so attractive, so unconscious of -himself, and I know Marion well enough to know that she would make an -ideal of him--" - -"Nonsense," was the sharp interruption. - -"It may be nonsense, but it is true; it has proved true. Marion is -imaginative, as I was at her age: I know how I idealized _you_--" - -"And the reality of me broke your heart," he said, with a light, fond -laugh. - -"Yes. Sometimes it did. But I lived through it and learned that you -were human, and deliciously human, and, if you will allow me to say -so, a great improvement on my girlish ideal." - -"At any rate, I was not afraid to let you try," he answered; "but Don -has gone without giving her the trial. I suspect he saw it and went." - -"I know he did," said Marion's mother. - -"Does Roger know it?" asked Marion's father. - -"Roger always knows everything and looks as if he knew nothing," -replied the motherly voice; "I think he was relieved when Don went -away." - -"You think she will soon get over it?" her father asked. It would have -broken Marion's heart to hear the solicitude in her father's voice. - -"I'm afraid there's no 'over it' for a girl like her; but she is -plucky enough to get through it; the worst of it is, Don is such a -fine fellow." - -"He had no right to care for her--" her father began angrily. - -"He couldn't help that," argued her mother. - -"Then he should care more, and be a man, and speak his mind--" - -"I think he _must_ care for some one else; if he hadn't he couldn't -resist Marion." - -"Marion is like other girls," said Marion's father impatiently; "not a -whit prettier--" - -"No, not prettier," she assented, with protest in her tone. - -"Or more accomplished," he insisted. - -"She hasn't accomplishments, beside her fine education, and music--" - -"All girls play, I suppose he sees other girls--" - -"And she saw but one man. That was the trouble. I wonder how fathers -and mothers can help that. Roger wanted him to come to board through -the winter, said a boarding-house was dismal, and his mother had just -died--well, we can't help it now. Don has cared for all the children--he -was great friends with Maurice and John. If she will go to Bensalem -and keep house for Roger, it will be just the thing." - -"I think so myself," he answered, reasonably. - -"Roger will be only too happy; his sister Marion has always been his -sweetheart." - -"Bensalem will do," replied her father, hopefully, shifting all his -responsibility; "when we visit them next summer she will be as rosy as -ever and singing about the house like a bird." - -"Then Roger must accept that call," decided Roger's mother positively. -"A year in the country will brush off his student ways--it will be the -best thing in the world for both of them." - -"And poor Bensalem?" - -"It isn't poor Bensalem," she retorted, indignantly. "They knew what -they wanted when they called Roger." - -"Roger is a good boy, but he isn't the least bit brilliant," said -Roger's father, cheerfully. - -"He is something better," said Roger's mother. - -"But how can you get along without her?" - -"Better than Roger can. Besides, Martha and Lou will soon be through -school; Roger and Marion are not our only children." - -"You talk as though they were, sometimes," he retorted. "Anyhow, let -the sky fall, but do something for Marion." - - - - -VII. A SMALL DISCIPLE. - - - "Who comes to God an inch through doubtings dim, - In blazing light God will advance a mile to him." - - --From the Persian. - -Aunt Rody gave Judith a nudge. The nudge startled the absorbed reader -into dropping, with a thud, the book she held in her hand upon the -carpeted floor of the pew; with a crimsoned face Judith stooped and -picked up the book; after a moment of deliberation and a defiant flash -toward Aunt Rody, stiff and straight in the end of the pew, she -re-opened her book and was again lost in the fascinating story. Aunt -Rody glared at her, but she turned a page, only half conscious of the -wrath that was being heaped up against her; this time it was not a -nudge, but a large hand that startled her; the large hand, brown, -strong, was laid across the page. - -Judith gave a glance, not defiant, into the kindly, grave eyes, then -shut the book, straightened herself and tried hard to listen to the -minister. - -The figure at the other end of the pew, the man's figure, settled back -comfortably to listen, and listened without trying hard. - -The kindly, grave eyes under the shaggy black brows never stirred from -the minister's face; once in a while the brown, strong hand stroked -the long white beard; Judith watched him as he listened, and then she -watched Aunt Rody, unbending, alert, with her deep-set black eyes, her -hard-working hands very still in her new, black kid gloves. - -When the sermon was ended Judith gave a sigh of relief; she could sit -still, she had sat still; but her mind had not followed the minister. - -She wished she could like sermons. She liked the Bible. This sermon -was not like the Bible. - -As she stood in the church doorway, waiting for Aunt Rody, who always -had something to tell, or something to ask in the crowd in the aisle, -she overheard a loud whisper behind her: "Oh, that's Judith Mackenzie. -She has come to stay with the Sparrow girls. Her mother was their -niece. Father died long ago; mother last winter." To escape further -details, the listener stepped forward and down one step; there was a -stir and some one stood beside her, a tall young man, not like any one -else in Bensalem: she knew without raising her eyes that he was the -new minister. She flushed, thinking that he had noticed that she was -reading her Sunday School book in church. - -"Would you like to be a Christian?" he asked, with something in his -tone that made it hard for her to keep the tears back. - -This was worse than a rebuke for reading; she might have excused -herself for that; for this she had no words. The voice was very low; -perhaps no one heard beside herself. - -Too startled to speak at first, she kept silent; then, too truthful to -speak one word that she was not sure was true, and thinking that she -hardly knew what it was to _be_ a Christian, she could not say "Yes"; -not daring to say "No," she stood silent. - -"Pray for the Holy Spirit," he said, moving away. - -She knew how to pray; she had prayed all her life; but she had never -once prayed for the Holy Spirit. She was afraid to do that. - -What would happen to her if she did, she wondered, as she walked down -the paved path to the gate; would a tongue of flame come down from -heaven and settle on her head? Would she speak with tongues, right -there, before them all, in the crowd? Would she heal the sick by -prayer and anointing with oil? Would she pray in prayer-meeting, and -go about from house to house talking about the Lord Jesus, whose dear, -sacred name she seldom took upon her lips? - -What a strange thing to say to a girl of thirteen! - -There were no young disciples in the Bible; they were all grown up and -old. - -Just now all she wanted to do was to tell Jesus and his Father -everything that troubled her, and everything she was glad of, and read -the Bible, and,--"Come Judith," interrupted Aunt Rody's shrill voice. -She sat on the back seat of the carriage with Aunt Rody; Mr. Brush sat -alone on the front seat; Aunt Affy had not come to church to-day; it -was her turn to stay at home. - -Aunt Rody insisted that some one should always stay at home; there was -the silver, and her will, and a great many other things to be guarded -from Sunday marauders. - -"Judith Grey Mackenzie," began Aunt Rody, in her most revengeful -voice, "you must behave in church or stay at home." - -"I was behaving--I read to help behave; when I cannot understand I -think everyday thoughts; isn't that worse than reading?" - -"Nothing is so bad behaved as reading. And all the folks seeing you. -What do you suppose the new minister thinks of you?" - -"He thinks I am not--" - -Her shy lips could not frame the words "a Christian." - -"Not very well brought up," tartly finished Aunt Rody. - -"I brought myself up, that's the reason then," replied Judith, her -eyes filling with resentful tears. "Mother was always too sick. Cousin -Don said my mother was the sweetest mother in the world." - -"You act like a sick mother; but you've got an aunt that isn't sick; -and if I ever see you read again in church you shall not go to church -for six months. Tell your Cousin Don that." - -"I wouldn't mind church," replied Judith. - -"To Sunday School then, if that hurts more." - -"Oh, tut, tut," came good humoredly from the front seat. "Don't forget -your own young days, Rody." - -"I never had any. Just as I shall never have any old age. I've never -had time to be young or old." - -Judith laughed. Aunt Rody was eighty-four years old. - -"Don't you deceive me about the book, Judith, for I don't always go to -church." - -"Aunt Rody," with girlish dignity, "I never deceived any one in my -life." - -"That's a good deal to say." - -"I haven't lived to be eighty-four, but I think I never _shall_ -deceive. I would rather _die_ than not be true," she burst out. - -"H'm, you haven't been tried." - -Judith thought she had; did not this grim, hard old woman try her -every day of her life? - -The long village street was lined with maples and locusts; inside the -yards were horse-chestnut trees, lilacs, and syringas. - -All over the beautiful country the fruit trees were in blossom; Judith -revelled in the fragrance and delicate tints of the apple-blossom; she -called it her apple-blossom spring. - -The story and a half red farmhouse, with its slanting roof and long -piazza, marked the "Sparrow place"; it had been the Sparrow place one -hundred and fifty years. The red farmhouse was built one hundred years -ago; the Sparrow girls, the eight sisters, were all born there long -before many of the village people could remember. - -As Judith stepped up on the piazza the bowed gray head at the window -was lifted; the girl went to the open window and stood; Aunt Affy took -off her spectacles and laid them in the book she was reading. - -Judith thought Aunt Affy read but one book. How could anyone be wise -and read only one book? - -"Well, dear," said Aunt Affy in her welcoming tones. To Aunt Affy -Judith Grey Mackenzie was the sweetest picture of girlhood in all the -world; she was as fresh as the dew, tinted like an apple-blossom, as -natural as a wild rose. To everyone else she was a girl of thirteen, -with the faults, the forgetfulness, the impetuosity, the -thoughtlessness, and above all, the selfishness of girlhood. Her -yellow hair fell in long curls to her waist, because her mother had -loved it so; her eyes of deepest blue were frank and truth-telling; in -her lips, flexible, yet strong, was revealed a world of loving; a -world that she had not yet learned herself. - -She was impatient, passionate, rebellious; but never was it in face, -voice, or attitude when under the witchery of Aunt Affy's -appreciation. - -"Aunt Affy, I've been wicked," she confessed in a humiliated voice. - -"So have I. I've been sitting here grumbling, when I should be the -happiest old sinner in the world." - -"I've been wickeder than that." - -"How much wickeder?" - -"I borrowed a Sunday-school book to take to church because I do not -understand Mr. Kenney." - -"Did that help you understand him?" - -"I did try at first," Judith explained, laughing at Aunt Affy's -serious question, "but it was about the things in Revelation, the hard -things--" - -"Did he not say anything you _could_ understand?" - -"No--" said Judith, thinking that his message to her, her own private -message, was the hardest of all to understand. - -"You were very rude." - -"How was it rude?" Judith questioned, surprised. - -"He was speaking to you, and you refused to listen." - -"I was listening to someone else," said Judith, troubled. - -"That was more rude still. That was premeditated rudeness." - -"I hope he did not notice it." - -"You may trust him for that." - -"But I cannot tell him I am sorry; it would choke me to death." - -"And another thing--if he is Christ's ambassador, and you refused to -listen--" - -The girl's eyes filled, and her lips trembled; was it _that_ she had -done? - -"It's time to set the table," were Aunt Affy's next words, in an -unconcerned tone, polishing her glasses with a corner of her white -apron. That small, clean old kitchen; how Judith loved it. She loved -every kind of work that was done in it, even the wash-tubs, the smell -of the suds was exhilarating, and baking and ironing days were her -delight. Every nerve and muscle responded to the call to labor. - -The south door opened on a flagged walk that led to Aunt Affy's flower -garden, the north door led you out into a deep, square, grassy yard, -where the clothes were hung and bleached; a tall, shaggy pine stood -sentinel at one side of the door, on the other side ran the bench upon -which the milk-pans shone in a row; beyond the grass rose a stone -wall, and then there were fields and woods; woods in which the thrush -hid, and the whip-poor-will; a brook started from a spring in the -woods and tumbled over the pebbles down into the meadows, then out, -below the flower garden and across the road, where it was bridged with -a stone arch. - -In the kitchen was a brick oven, its iron door stood out black among -the white-washed bricks; the uneven boards of the kitchen were always -scrubbed clean, the stove was brushed into a shining blackness every -day, the two tables were as spotless as sand, the scrubbing-brush and -Aunt Affy's strong hands could make them. - -Out of the three windows were pictures of which the city-bred girl -never wearied. Her apple-blossom spring was the spring of her new -birth. - -"Aunt Rody, please excuse me," Judith said, rising from the dinner -table. - -"You haven't eaten your custard, and you like it with crab-apple -jelly." - -The yellow custard in the big coffee-cup with a broken handle, and the -generous spoonful of jelly quivering on top was a temptation; she -looked at it, then pushed it away. Nobody would ever know that she was -punishing herself for being "rude" in church; it was easier to punish -herself than to apologize to Mr. Kenney; and something had to be done. - -"I want to study my Sunday-school lesson," she evaded, and then her -heart sank at her deception; she had not told Aunt Rody all the truth. - -She fled into the parlor with a question from Aunt Rody pursuing her; -her cheeks were burning, and she was trembling with shame and anger. - -Why couldn't Aunt Rody leave her alone? Sometimes she almost hated -Aunt Rody. A corner of the stiff, long, horse-hair sofa was her -retreat; it was often her retreat; she called it her valley of -humiliation. - -In her lesson to-day she found the loveliest thing. Aunt Affy was -teaching her that the Bible was a treasure-house. - -"By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love -one to another." - -All men know--just by loving--not by doing any great hard thing--by -loving--but that was hard, if it meant bearing with Aunt Rody's -misunderstanding and sharpness and fault-finding, and being always on -the watch to find evil in you. - -But "all men know" was the comfort of it; she need not pray in prayer -meeting as Miss Kenney did, nor do the wonderful things the disciples -did; all men would know that she wanted to be a Christian, if she -tried to be loving. - -She repeated the words of Christ in a soft monotone, her small Bible -in her hand, and her head pillowed on her hair on the hard sofa-arm. - -Aunt Affy pushed the door wider and entered, bringing a glass half -filled with crab-apple jelly. - -"I saved your custard--it's on the hanging shelf in the cellar," she -said, opening the door of the chimney cupboard to set the glass in its -own space in the row of jelly glasses. - -"Aunt Affy," lifting her tumbled head, and with grave eyes asking her -question: "what is--who is a disciple?" - -"A disciple is one who learns. You are my disciple when you learn of -me. The disciple of Christ is the man, or woman, or child who learns -of him. When you are about the farm with Cephas, you are his disciple, -in sewing and mending you are Aunt Rody's, in housekeeping generally -you are my disciple." - -Aunt Affy went out, and the tumbled head dropped back to the hard -sofa-arm again. Would Christ let her be a "disciple" a little while, -and then be a Christian when she grew up, she pondered. - -She wanted to learn of him; she would read the Gospels through and -through and through. She would learn them by heart. For her lesson -to-day she would learn these seven verses he had spoken to his own, -real, grown-up disciples. - -That afternoon in Sunday-school, after the lesson was ended, the new -minister left his class of boys and came to the pulpit stairs and -stood and talked to the children; his opening sentence thrilled one -small listener:-- - -"_The disciples were called Christians_ first at Antioch." - -If you were a disciple, only a disciple, learning and loving, you were -called a Christian. Then he spoke of the Holy Spirit; he was the very -heart and will of Christ; he spoke in a low, sweet voice to children, -a constraining voice, making known the things Christ the Lord would -have them do; he showed them the things of Christ. - -Had she dared she would have stepped out of her pew and gone up the -aisle to the new minister and told him that she _did_ want to be a -Christian, and she would not be afraid to ask the Holy Spirit to tell -her all the things Christ wanted her to do. Miss Kenney, her teacher -and the minister's sister, noticed the start and flush, the hesitancy, -the eager look, as the minister came down the aisle and paused to -speak to her girls; she saw Judith's eyes drop as he took her hand, -and then her shy withdrawal of herself. - -Suddenly the girl turned, and with the flash of decision in her voice, -said bravely, detaining the minister with her trembling little hand:-- - -"I am sorry I read in church this morning; I will never do it again, -even if I don't understand. Please excuse me." - -"I saw you," he said, smiling, and taking the brave little hand into -both his own; "I will try to talk to _you_ next Sunday. Thank you for -the lesson." - -Then shy Judith slipped away, and never told even Aunt Affy that she -had apologized to the new minister. - -That evening in the twilight, sitting on the piazza alone, she wrote -on the fly-leaf of her small Bible, in pencil:-- - - Judith Grey Mackenzie; A Disciple. - -And the date, May 15, 18--. - -She thought she would like to tell somebody that she was a disciple. -But if they should ask how it happened, she could not tell. It had -happened as still as a leaf fluttering in the wind, as softly as the -apple-blossoms came; nobody could tell about that. She thought the -Holy Spirit must know how it happened. - - - - -VIII. THIS WAY, OR THAT WAY? - - - "My times are in Thy hand, and Thou - Wilt guide my footsteps at Thy will." - -It was six o'clock that May evening, and Joe was running away. He did -not know he was running away. He had never been taught to read, and no -one had ever told him a story, and his own experience of life was so -limited, that he did not know that he was starting out in the world to -find adventures, to find good or evil, to find a new life, and that -new life, shaped more by what was inside of himself, than what was -outside of himself. If the man who just passed him had asked him what -he was doing, he would have said, had he not been overcome by one of -his fits of shyness, that he was "gittin' out." - -The air was damp, and sweet with the scent of blossoms. At his right -ran a range of low hills, abrupt and green; at his left, as far as he -could see, stretched the swamp, miles of meadow, over-flooded in the -spring, waving with grass in the summer, and homely with unpainted -one-story houses, and out-buildings in various stages of decay; it was -a pasture land for the cattle of the farmers in the upland district, -and Joe's bare feet had trodden its miles morning and night ever since -he had been old enough to drive the cows. - -He went on slowly, with his hands in his pockets, too heavy-hearted to -whistle, not thinking about anything, only feeling, with something in -his throat that would not be swallowed down, miserable and defiant; -remembering nothing in his past to regret not having learned that -there was anything in his future to hope for, he was conscious only of -something stirring within, stirring to action, to wideness, to -freedom, and therefore he must "git out" to find it; therefore he was -getting out. - -His plan, if he had a plan, was to find a woman in the village who had -once spoken kindly to him, and given him a huge slice of warm bread -and butter; in the swamp he knew he might find work among the Germans, -but the swamp was so lonely at night, and he did not like the ways of -the Germans; in all the world he had but one friend, this woman who -had spoken kindly to him. - -She might not give him work, or a bed, but she would _look_ at him, as -no one else ever looked, and she would speak kindly. The road over the -hill drew his lagging feet, then he stood, hesitating, at the turn of -the hill road and swamp road; the hill road led to people, and a -church, a store, where boys and men gathered at night to read the -newspaper, and smoke, and have fun; to the blacksmith's shop, and, -most of all, to the little house next door, where the woman lived who -had cut that large slice across her big, hot loaf. - -A German, in the swamp, had told him to come to him for a home and -work, if he ever wanted to leave his place; work he must, and a -home--the woman's face came between him and the German, his heart began -to beat very fast, he wondered why his heart beat so fast sometimes, -and he took his life in his hands, and started on a run for the road -over the hill, where was the only thing in the world that seemed like -love, although of love he had never had one thought. Then he began to -walk slowly again; he had decided there was no need of hurrying, there -was no need of doing anything--he had never been given a reason for -doing anything excepting that one or the other of the old men with -whom he had lived all his remembered life bade him do it. He had done -things because he was told; he did not know why, excepting that -because he was told. - -If he were being told now to run away, he did not know; he had never -thought that he might tell himself to do things. Not for a moment did -he believe that the two old men would take the trouble to look for -him, or to wish him back; every day, one, or both, said to each other -or to him that he was not worth his salt, and would never amount to -anything; they must be glad he was gone. But the cows. They would be -sorry, especially Beauty; one of the old men would milk her to-night, -but they would not pat her and talk to her, and ask her if she were -glad she was a cow and not a boy, and was worth her salt, and all her -feed beside; she had no friend but him, and she would look around for -him with her big eyes; again he stood hesitating--Beauty wanted him--his -tears fell fast; but he must go on, he wanted something better than -Beauty. - -So he went on down the hill, past the pretty parsonage and the -church--wondering, if he had no place to sleep, if he might sleep in -the church; then past the school-house, with its large play-ground, -and turned by the liberty-pole, and walked very slowly along the -street until he reached the blacksmith's shop, and there, in the -doorway of the small house, stood the woman looking for him. - -"Why, Joe, what are you doing here at milking time?" she asked in a -brisk tone, as the boy stopped before the gate. - -"I'm done milking for them two old men," he said, in a voice he tried -hard to make brave. "Chris and Sam don't want me any longer; I'm -gittin' out." And then, big boy as he was, feeling lost in a strange -world, he began to cry. - -"There! there! Sonny," soothed the voice, changing from its briskness -into sympathy, as the woman stepped down the three steps; "Come and -eat supper with me; I know what I'll do with you. I'm glad you -happened to come along this way." - -Pushing open the gate, she laid her hand on his arm and drew him into -the house by his soiled and ragged sleeve. - -"We don't want a boy, haven't work enough; but I know somebody who -does, late in the season as it is. Mr. Brush, Mr. Cephas Brush, he -farms the Sparrow place, you know; while he was waiting at the shop -this very morning, he came to the well for a drink, and I went out to -give him a glass so he needn't drink out of that rusty tin cup, and he -asked me if I knew where he could find a boy. His boy went off in -March. _He's_ a good master, and that's a good home; Miss Affy is like -a mother to every stray thing and you won't mind if Miss Rody does -scold, she never means any harm. I'll take you down there right after -supper. Mr. Evans had his early because he wanted to go to town, and I -was feeding my chickens, two hundred and five now,--Nettie puts down -every new brood in a book--and couldn't stop to eat. I didn't think I -was going to have company for supper. Nettie had hers earlier than -usual because she was tired, and wanted to go to bed." She pulled him -through the narrow hall as she talked, Joe, once in a while, giving a -quick, hard sob, and opened the door into the tiny kitchen. - -The tea-kettle on the stove was singing a cheery welcome, the white -cloth and pink dishes on the round table in the centre of the room -gave him another welcome, and the touch and tone of the woman who had -been kind to him brought him the cheeriest welcome of all, as she -pushed him down into the chair opposite her own at the table, saying: -"I know what men's cooking _is_, and I know you are half-starved. Who -made the bread?" - -"I got that at the store." - -"You had potatoes, of course." - -"Oh, yes, and fried pork, lots of it, and pan-cakes. My! can't Chris -make good pan-cakes!" - -"Can he?" inquired Mrs. Evans, doubtfully, taking the tea-pot off the -stove and setting it on the table. - -"Now, here's hot fried potatoes for you, and good bread and butter, -and a big saucer of rice pudding--Mr. Evans is _never_ tired of rice -pudding,--and sponge cake that little Judith brought to Nettie to-day -because it is her own baking. Nettie took a bite and said I must put -the rest on the supper-table. And you can have tea or milk, or both." - -After bustling about in the shed, Mrs. Evans seated herself at the -table opposite her guest. - -"Who would have thought I was going to eat supper with you, Joe? The -world does turn on its axis once every twenty-four hours, and -unexpected things do happen. I'll tell Nettie all about it tomorrow; -it will make a happening in her poor little life." - -Joe gave her a shy, quick glance, then bowed his head; some time, -somewhere, not with the old men, certainly, he had bowed his head and -said something at the table; he did not remember where it was, or what -words he said, or why he said anything at all, but the pretty -tea-table, or the savory food reminded him of a life he had once -lived; he listened for a chorus of voices:-- - -"For what we are about to receive--receive--truly thankful." - -It was like music in the boy's heart; he lifted his head with a light -shining in his tear-blurred eyes. - -"Well, I never," ejaculated Mrs. Evans. - -The boy held his knife and fork with a grace her husband had not -acquired, taking his food as slowly and daintily as a girl. - -"Those Tucker men, that old Chris and Sam have no claim on you, and -they haven't done as well by you as they promised they would when they -took you, a little fellow, out of the Christie Home. I've often spoken -to Mr. Evans about it, but he's so easy going I might as well have -talked to the wind. I told our new minister that he must 'high-way and -hedge' you; he has noticed you; but he is feeling his way among the -people, and couldn't make a stir as soon as he came." - -"Is _that_ where I was?" asked astonished Joe. "I thought I used to be -somewhere. _They_ never told me. I seem to remember things that -happened before I can remember. They told me that I hadn't any father -or mother, and wouldn't have any home if they had not taken me in." - -"People thought you ought to be sent to school and Sunday-school, but -what is everybody's business is nobody's business. I'm glad enough you -have left them, but you should have told them you wanted to leave." - -"It wouldn't have done any good," he muttered "they wouldn't have said -anything." - -"Now, I'll put out the cat, and leave the table standing, and bolt the -shed door, and lock the front door, and put on my things, and we'll be -off. Nettie is fast asleep and will never miss me." - -"I will wash the dishes for you; we put them under the pump, then wipe -them on anything." - -"That wouldn't suit me, thank you," laughed Mrs. Evans; "you can hoe -corn better than wipe dishes, and Mr. Brush has acres and acres of -corn to hoe, and potatoes too: he's making that old Sparrow farm pay." - -Joe did not know that he had been lost, but he began to feel very much -found. - -"I'm glad you went out to the well with that glass," he said, as his -hostess wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and tied the blue ribbons -of a blue wool hood under her chin. - -"I'm usually glad of kind things I do; I suppose that's one reason I -do them." - -Joe unlatched the gate, holding it open for her to pass through, then -pushed it shut; Beauty and this woman seemed to belong to the same -order of creaturehood; the woman's eyes were like Beauty's, soft, and -big and brown, and _they answered you_. She took his hand and drew it -under her arm in a sort of comradeship, and then they went on, the -woman and the boy, to find the gate that would swing open into a world -of which it had never entered the boy's heart to dream. - -The gate was shut and a man in shirt-sleeves with a pipe in his mouth -was standing on the mysterious and happy side of it resting his elbows -on the pickets, and, attracted by voices, looking up the road in the -starlight towards the two figures. - -"You stay here, Joe--that's Mr. Brush. I'll tell him all your story." - -"My story?" repeated Joe, in amazement. - -"You didn't know you had any," she laughed. "Well, folks don't usually -until it is all lived through. I didn't know I had any girlhood until -I married and lost it." - -"I haven't lost anything," said Joe, bewildered. - -"No; and I think you have got something--stand back, till I call you." - -She went on, and Joe heard the two voices exchange a friendly "Good -evening," and then to escape his "story" climbed up the steep, green -bank, and waited under a cherry tree. Cherry blossoms were not as -pretty as apple blossoms, he meditated; it was queer how the blossoms -would fall off, and the hard, green fruit come--but it always did, -somehow. - -He wished Mrs. Evans would come back and take his hand again, making -him feel ashamed and glad, and say, "Joe, you are going home with me. -That man doesn't want you, and I do." - -And there he stood, not still, but first on one bare foot, and then on -the other, and then he whistled; the stars shining down through the -cherry blossoms were almost as kind as Beauty's eyes, but they were so -far off. - -The low voices talked on and on; at last, to the great relief of the -boy who was waiting to know if anybody in the world wanted to own him, -the man's voice was raised in a cheerful: "Well, I'll see Mr. Chris -Tucker to-morrow, and make it right." - -And, then, in her brisk way, Mrs. Evans called, "Come, Joe; it is all -right." - -The barefoot, ragged boy emerged out of the shade of the cherry limbs -and went, faint-heartedly to answer the call. - -"Well, Joe," welcomed the old man, unlatching the gate and throwing it -wide open, "come in and stay with me awhile. I guess I want you and -you want me." - -But Joe begun to cry, and rub his eyes with the back of his dirty -brown hand: "I am sixteen years old, and I am a stump of a thing, and -will eat you out of house and home, and shan't never amount to much." - -"Tut, nonsense!" exclaimed the old man; "don't you like to work?" - -"I never did nothing else; I don't like nothing else," replied Joe, -dropping his hand, somewhat reassured. - -"Who said you are sixteen? Come in and let me have a look at you." - -Joe stepped inside the gate; kind, strong hands drew him within the -light that streamed from the kitchen windows and open door. - -"Good night, Joe," said Mrs. Evans. - -"Good night," said Joe. - -He had not learned how to say "thank you." - -"They said so," he replied to the latest question. - -"Those men. The Tucker twins. They are seventy, and hale old fellows. -I'll warrant you know how to work. You are not fourteen. You shall do -a boy's work and _be_ a boy. You _may_ grow to be as tall as old -Christopher himself. There's plenty of man-timber in you. Now come and -see what the women-folks will say to you." - -Joe shrank back. - -"I thought I was going to live with you." - -"And you thought I lived alone like the other old men? I'm a miserable -old bachelor, but I've got plenty of women-folks, thank the Lord." - -A little girl rushed to the door, and a barking Scotch terrier made a -spring at the new-comer. - -"Oh, what a dog," Joe exclaimed, stooping to catch frisking, curly -Doodles into his arms. Homesick for Mrs. Evans, frightened and glad, -he followed the old man into the kitchen with the curly dog in his -arms. - -"Affy, here's the boy I've been looking for, and you've been praying -for, I've no doubt." - -Aunt Affy turned and looked at the boy: short, stout, dirty, ragged, -with a shock of uncombed black hair, a lock falling over his forehead, -long black eyelashes concealed the eyes he kept shyly fixed upon the -curly bundle in his arms. - -"What is your name, dear?" she inquired. - -Joe had never heard "dear" before, but supposed she must be speaking -to him; he raised his eyes and smiled; they were shy, honest eyes; -Aunt Affy smiled too. - -"I am Joe," he said, pulling Doodles' ears. - -"Do you remember your father and mother?" - -"No; I don't remember nobody but Chris and Sam." - -"Is your name Joseph?" - -"I don't know; I never thought. I guess it's Joseph--or Jo--no, now I -remember another name: _Josiah_. Is that a boy's name?" - -"A boy's name, and a king's name. I am glad your name is Josiah. I -will tell you about him some time." - -The little girl stood near the lady, but she did not stare at him, and -Joe gave her glances now and then from under his long lashes; he would -like to know her name, and what she was here for. A man's fur cap -covered the black head; when he left the house, angry and discouraged, -he had put upon his head the first thing he seized. - -"Doodles hasn't given you time to take your hat off, Joe, or did you -forget?" suggested Aunt Affy's unreproachful voice. - -"Didn't forget it," said Joe, pulling it off and dropping it on the -floor. "They used to eat with their hats on, but I always took mine -off." - -"I should think you would," exclaimed indignant Judith. - -Joe put his cheek down upon Doodles' head, smoothing the sleeping head -with his brown cheek. - -"What is the dog's name?" he inquired. - -"Doodles," answered Judith, hastening to speak to the rude, strange -boy who had traveled from an unknown country. - -"O, Doodles, Doodles, Doodles," whispered Joe, in a fond voice, -rubbing his cheek on the soft head. - -"Well, Joe, do you love cows as well as dogs?" inquired Mr. Brush. - -"Yes," said Joe, thinking of the cow that was missing him to-night. He -hoped she was asleep now. "But I'm glad I found Doodles." - -"Now, Joe, drop Doodles," said Aunt Affy, "and follow me up these -kitchen stairs. I have a room ready for an obedient, truthful, -industrious boy." - -[Illustration: "Now, Joe, drop Doodles," said Aunt Affy, "and follow -me up these kitchen stairs."] - -"Where is _he_?" asked Joe, lifting his shaggy head. - -They all laughed, and laughing, also, Joe followed the plump, -sweet-faced lady up the kitchen stairs. - - - - -IX. THE FLOWERS THAT CAME TO THE WELL. - - - "He might have made the earth bring forth - Enough for great and small, - The oak tree and the cedar tree, - And not a flower at all." - - --Mary Howitt. - -Nettie Evans sat in her invalid chair leaning forward with her chin -on the window-sill looking down into her father's untidy back yard. - -The only pleasant thing in it was a lilac bush that was a marvel of -beauty when it was in bloom, but that had faded many weary days ago, -leaving ugly brown bunches where the lilacs had been; there were two -well-worn paths, one leading to the kitchen door, and the other to -the well, and nothing besides, excepting weeds with a background of -apple orchard. If Nettie had raised her eyes she would have seen -woods, and hills and fields of grain, a bit of road, a wooden bridge, -and a deep blue sky full of puffy, white clouds, but she would not -raise her eyes; when her back ached as it did to-day she never saw -anything but the weeds in the yard, especially those tall rag-weeds -growing close around the well. Her father had promised to "clear up" -the yard after planting, but planting had come and gone, and he was -still too busy. - -"Oh, if I were only able to pull weeds," she sighed. - -It was a very gentle sigh, she was not strong enough to sigh heavily. -Three years ago she could shout and run, to-day she could not move -her feet, and there were many days during the year when she must lie -still in bed. - -In winter, she had a south room, at the front of house, where she saw -the rising and the setting sun, and had a good view of all the people -who passed back and forth from the village; in summer, she had this -cool north room that looked out on the back yard. - -The back yard was full of interest to her--when she could forget the -weeds. Twenty times a day her mother came to the kitchen door to look -up at her, and tell her how the work was going on; she knew what was -cooking by the odors that came up to her and what all the noises -meant, from the click of the egg-beater to the thud of the -churn-dasher, and she saw old Mrs. Finch when she came to borrow -baking powder, and the pedlars, and book-agents, and apple-tree men; -but best of all she liked to watch for her father to come in to -dinner and supper. - -In blue flannel shirt and big straw hat, tired and dusty and warm, he -never failed to look up and call: "Why, hello, you there, daughter?" -just as if she were well, and had only run up stairs for a moment. -And her weak, "I'm here, father," made the sadness and the happiness -of his life. - -Nettie moved her head slightly, and gained a view of the pasture -where three cows were feeding; she could not see the brook, but she -knew that it ran through the pasture, and she knew there were blue -lilies all along the brook, some of them growing in the water. - -How she longed to see those lilies growing in the water! - -She was only ten years old the last time she saw those lilies: she -was driving home the cows at night, in her pink calico dress and -stout leather shoes, with her father's old straw hat on the back of -her head, "a picture of a happy, healthy, country lassie," her father -thought as he watched her standing by the clump of lilies while she -waited for the cows to drink. She was thinking she would gather a big -bunch of the lilies as soon as they were opened the next morning--but -the pet calf came behind her and butted her down, and her father -carried home in his arms a helpless little daughter. And there were -tiger lilies in bloom; she could not see the place where they were -growing, but it was only a quarter of a mile away in a fence corner, -such a patch of them! Oh, how she longed to see those tiger lilies -growing! The last time she saw the tiger lilies was the Sunday before -she said good-bye to the blue lilies--she was walking home alone from -Sunday-school in white dress and blue ribbons, and brown kid shoes, -and when she came to the fence corner with the great clump of tiger -lilies, she thought of picking a large bunch of them, but just then -she heard a noise behind her, and turning, saw a neighbor's three -little black and white pigs; they had followed her all the way from -the corner, and it was so funny to think how she had walked along -unconsciously, with those pigs in single file behind her, that she -just stood and laughed, and then she clapped her hands at them and -chased them back, and forgot all about the tiger lilies. - -"Oh, blue lilies, oh, tiger lilies, I'll _never_ see you growing any -more," she sighed. - -"Why, hello, daughter, you up there?" called the voice below her. - -Nettie did not answer; she felt too discouraged to speak, but she -looked down and tried to smile at her father. - -Her father looked just as usual, only he had a scythe over his -shoulder. - -"I came in a little earlier to cut down your weeds," he called -cheerily. - -Nettie watched him as he swung the scythe, and listened to the swish, -swish, as the tall weeds fell; when the weeds around the well grew -less she caught a glimpse of something blue, and then of something -red; she pulled herself up to the window, and leaned out, and then -she shrieked:-- - -"Father, don't cut down the _lilies_!" - -There they were, blue lilies and tiger lilies, growing together, -close by the well! - -"How did they _get_ there, father?" she called. - -"They must have been in the sod that I put around the well last -fall," he replied; "I remember now that I got it from two different -places. If I had cut down the weeds before the lilies bloomed, I -shouldn't have known they were there, and should have cut them all -down together." - -Nettie fell back in her chair with a sigh of delight, watching her -father while with his hands he pulled all the weeds away from the -lilies. - -"Mother," she called, lifting herself forward, and resting her chin -again on the window-sill. - -"Well, Deary," came in a quick voice from the shed, and her mother -appeared in the shed doorway with the dish of boiled potatoes she -held in her hand when Nettie's voice reached her. - -"Mother, will you ask Judith to stop and see my lilies the next time -she goes past?" - -"Your lilies, child?" - -"Yes, my own lilies, there by the well. They came and grew just for -me." - -Mrs. Evans gave a glance toward the well, then hastened to set the -potato dish on the dinner table. - -"Of all things! And how she has wanted to see lilies grow! The -blessed child is watched over and done for as her father and I can't -do. I declare," in a shame-faced way, all to herself, "when such -things happen I wish I was a Christian." - -"Mother, mother," called the happy voice again; "I want Joe to see my -lilies too." - -"Yes, Deary," promised her mother from within the shed. - - - - -X. THE LAST APPLE. - - - "God loves not only a cheerful giver, but a cheerful - worker as well." - - --Fletcher Reade. - -That afternoon as Nettie was slowly rousing herself from her -afternoon nap in her chair, she heard a low, joyful exclamation under -her windows. - -"Oh, lovely. Mrs. Evans, it's like--a poem." - -Then a light flashed over the pale face, and Nettie lifted herself -forward to look, and to speak. - -"O, Judith, I wanted you to see them. You do love pretty things so." - -Judith came through the shed, and up the narrow rag-carpeted stairs -to the open door of Nettie's chamber. - -"I wish you would write a poem for me." - -Nettie Evans was Judith's "public," and a most enthusiastic one; the -young author looked very grave one day when Nettie told her that she -liked her poems better than the ones she read to her from the -Longfellow book. - -"I have brought a poem for you; no one has seen it yet; I've copied -it to send to my Cousin Don; you know he's in Switzerland, climbing -mountains, and having splendid times. It happened one Thanksgiving--I -was here in the country, you remember, with my mother. I saw one rosy -apple left on the top of a tree, and I felt so sorry for it. One day -I thought of it again, and I wrote this." - -Judith drew her chair close to Nettie's and took the folded sheet of -note paper from her pocket. - -"Oh, I wish I could make poems and sew carpet rags," moaned Nettie. - -Judith dared not say she wished she might, she dared not pity her, or -look at her; she unfolded her poem and began to read:-- - - THE LAST APPLE. - - I am a rosy-cheeked apple, - Left all alone on the tree, - And in the cold wind I am sighing, - 'Oh, what will become of me.' - -Nettie nodded approval, and the poet read modestly on:-- - - They've picked my sisters and cousins, - But I was too little to see; - Now, they will be eaten at Christmas, - But nothing will happen to me. - - The beets are pulled, and the parsnips - Are cosily left in the ground-- - When the farmer counts up his produce, - No record of me will be found. - - I was as pretty a blossom - As ever gave sweets to a bee; - But 'mong the good things for winter, - No one will be thankful for me. - - There's place for radish and carrot, - Though common as common can be, - And I wonder, wonder, wonder, - Why _I_ was left on the tree. - - Oh, here comes poor little Sadie, - With her face all wet with tears; - A face so pale and hardened, - But not with the lapse of years. - - Now, fly to my aid, dear cold wind, - And receive my last command,-- - With a twist, and turn and flutter, - _Just drop me into her hand_. - -In Nettie's radiant face and tear-filled eyes Judith found the -appreciation for which her soul thirsted. - -"That's _lovely_," exclaimed Nettie, "may I keep it and learn it?" - -"Of course you may. I'll copy it for you." - -"And I'll say it in the night if I cannot go to sleep. How much I've -had in one day. The lilies and the red apple. Don't you believe that -if you can't go out and get things _they always come_?" - -"But part of the fun is going out to get them," said Judith, and -then, in quick penitence, "but it must be so lovely to have them come -to you." - -"Agnes Trembly came yesterday to make me a new blue wrapper; I like -to have her sew here with me. Her mother is blind and that is harder -than my lot. Agnes said she wished she was a queen. But I never -thought of that." - -"Now I'll tell you a story. There is a little girl somewhere who _is_ -a queen, and sometimes she has to sit in state and receive people, -and do other queenly things. One day when she was playing with her -dolls, what do you think she said?" - -"What?" asked Nettie, her face beaming. - -"_If you are naughty again, I will make you a queen._" - -Nettie laughed to the story-teller's content. - -"Now, I'll tell you a chicken story. This happened to me. Aunt Rody -often lets me help her feed the chickens. We had a brood of little -chickens, and all died but two of them; I don't know why, I took good -care of them. One morning I found the mother dead. And what do you -think?--those two poor motherless little sisters cuddled under their -dead mother's wing. I would like to write a poem about that, only it -breaks my heart, and I like to write about happy things. The next day -one of them died, and the left one hadn't any chicken companion. And -then, what do you think? A hen mother who had only one chicken, -deserted that and went to roost; and this one little black chicken -tried to make friends with the sisterless little white chicken. It -was too pretty to watch them. The one whose mother deserted went into -her little coop and called and called to the other one; but the white -chicken didn't understand at first; when she _did_ understand, the -black chicken made it so plain, and she ran to the coop, and the -little black chicken and the little white chicken cuddled together as -loving and happy as could be." - -"You can put that into a poem," suggested Nettie, her eyes alight -with Judith's presence and stories. - -"Nettie," said Judith, impulsively, "I love to have you to tell -things to." - - - - -XI. HOW JEAN HAD AN OUTING. - - - "Is it warm in that green valley, - Vale of Childhood, where you dwell? - Is it calm in that green valley, - Round whose bourns such great hills swell? - Are there giants in the valley, - Giants leaving foot-prints yet? - Are there angels in the valley? - Tell me--I forget." - - --Jean Ingelow. - -Jean had been crying; in fact, she was crying now, but the tears were -stopped on their way down her cheeks by the rush of her new thought. -She was always having new thoughts; but this was the most splendid -new thought she had ever had in her fourteen years of life. - -"I'll do it!" she exclaimed aloud, springing to her feet. "I'll just -do it, and nobody will know but myself. I'll go away to a new place -and stay two weeks." - -In her delight she clapped her hands and whirled about the room. It -was such a small room to clap your hands and whirl about in. That was -the cause of her tears--that small room; that and the house, the farm, -and everything she had to do--and doing the same disagreeable things -every day, and never going anywhere. - -School closed yesterday; and this morning Sophie Elting, her best -friend, had gone away, for an _outing_ she called it, with a little -city air she had caught from her cousins. She was going to the -sea-shore to be gone two weeks. - -"I'll play go," cried Jean, "and I'll stay at home and do all the -things here that people do when they go on an outing." - -The first thing was to pack up. Sophie had a new trunk, and had shown -her all her pretty things packed snugly in it: cologne, a box of -paper, new handkerchiefs, and ever so many things to go on an outing -with. How could Jean play she had things which she hadn't? And she -had no trunk. She would "pack" in a shawl-strap. - -She put in her Sunday dress, her morning gingham, two white aprons, -her Bible and tooth-brush. She had ever so many things to take on an -outing. In half an hour her shawl-strap was packed. She looked down -at it with a sigh of relief and pleasure. Now she had started. - -"Jean," came up the stairway, "do you want to go to town?" - -Of course she did! The coming back would be "getting there." She was -going into the country for two weeks to board. The boarding was a -part of it. She had never boarded in her life; she would be a summer -boarder at Daisy Farm. - -"There's the butter to take," the voice at the foot of the stairs -went on, "and you may as well get your shoes, and I'll give you -twenty-five cents to spend as you like." - -"Oh, thank you!" cried Jean, delightedly. That would buy a box of -paper and envelopes, and she had twenty cents for stamps. She could -not think of another thing she wanted. - -At six o'clock that afternoon, when Jean drove back into the yard -with her father, she had two packages, her shoes and the box of -paper. She had not been her usual talkative self on the way home. -This gentleman sitting beside her was the farmer to whose house she -was going. He had met her at the train. She was looking about the -country and admiring things; she found seven things to admire which -she had never noticed before. At the tea-table she intended to talk -about them--"rave," as the summer boarders did. - -She went up to her little room and gravely unpacked her shawl-strap, -putting the things into the drawers and the closet. - -Her sister Lottie was setting the tea-table,--not in her play, but in -sober reality,--and it was Minnie's turn to milk to-night. The four -sisters shared the housework with their mother; Jean was number -three. Pet, eleven years old, was the youngest. - -"I must take a great interest in everybody," Jean said to herself. -"Boarders always do. I must try to do good to somebody, as Mrs. Lane -helped me last summer." - -At the supper-table she began to talk about the beautiful five-mile -drive from town, and the sunset from the top of the hill. - -"It _is_ pretty," said Minnie. - -"And the bridge with the willows. It is pretty enough for a picture; -and the ducks sailing down the stream." - -"I always said we had pretty things near home," remarked her father. - -Then Lottie found a nook in the woods to talk about, and Pet told of -a place like a cave, and the view on the top after you climbed the -big rock. The tired mother brightened. After supper Jean followed her -father out the back door and stood beside him. - -"How is the watermelon patch doing?" she asked, in a voice of great -interest, after thinking a minute. - -"Finely! Never so well before. Come and look at it." - -It was a pleasant walk. Jean imagined that she had a white shawl -thrown about her, and once in a while gave it a twitch as she -listened while the farmer talked about his melons. She asked -questions she had never thought of asking before, and learned several -new things about the farm. - -"It's a good thing to be a good farmer," she said. "I never thought -before how much farmers had to know." Her father looked pleased. - -It was Jean's work to wash the milk-pails and milk-pans. She did it -that night with a sense of enjoyment which she had never had before, -for she was simply "helping" of her own accord. She would be very -helpful; she would try to make these strangers care very much for -her. She would watch every day to see what she could do for them. -Mrs. Lane last summer had taught the class in the Sunday-school to -which Jean belonged, and had said that "all must try to be a blessing -to every one whom their life touched." It appeared to Jean that her -life touched everybody's in this house. - -Sunday was a wonderful day. She listened to the new preacher, and the -new Sunday-school was certainly very pleasant. She spoke to a little -girl she had never noticed before, and gave a rose to Julia Weed, -whom she had always disliked. She was trying to be like Mrs. Lane. - -In the evening she stayed at home from church with her mother, -because her mother's head ached; and when, for the first time in her -life, she proposed reading her Sunday-school book to her mother, she -was both pleased and rebuked to hear her reply, "Oh yes, I should -like it! I can't read evenings, and I often think how interesting -your books look." - -"And if I can't finish it to-night, may I read tomorrow night?" Jean -asked eagerly. - -"If I am not too tired." - -"But it will rest you." - -"Perhaps so. It will be something new." - -Something new for her to be thoughtful about her own hard-working -mother! And she had to imagine herself in somebody else's home to -think of it. - -What a day Monday was! She was busy all the morning, "helping," and -she found it good fun. In the afternoon she wrote a long letter to -Sophie, and she had so much to tell that she filled three sheets. In -the evening she read aloud to her mother, and her father listened, -after he read his paper, and said it was a "jolly good book." - -When she left the room to go to bed, she said, "Good night!" Usually -she forgot it. She was careful to remember "thank you," and "please." - -It was not her turn to iron. To-morrow would be a long, hot ironing -day, and there were so many starched things this week. Lottie was in -a hurry to finish the pink muslin she was making for herself. If she -should offer to iron two hours, and let Lottie sew--but how she hated -to iron! - -Still, she could only stay with these people two weeks--and there was -nothing else Lottie would like so much; she and Lottie had not been -very good friends lately, and this would "make up." She was the one -to make up, for she had been cross and had refused to do her work in -order to let Lottie go to the picnic. Minnie did it, and let Lottie -go, and Jean had felt mean ever since. - -But she was only fourteen, and it was vacation. But Mrs. Lane -said--and now she wished she hadn't!--that nobody ever had a vacation -from doing kind things. - -She could help iron next week. This was her week. - -"I guess it's God's week!" This was one of Jean's new thoughts. Going -into your own home like a new somebody was very hard work; she almost -wished she were not a summer boarder, that she had stayed at home! -And this last thought was so funny that the people down-stairs heard -her laughing. - -"Jean is a happy child," said her mother. - -"Yes, she seems to have a new kink," replied her father. "She is -taking a sudden interest in everything. I used to think she hated the -farm and everything about it. The farm is all I've got to give my -girls, and it hurts me to have them care nothing about it." - -"It's vacation, and she's more rested," said Minnie. "She loves books -better than any of us, and studies harder." - -"I don't know what the secret is, but I'm glad of it," her father -replied. - -With a brave heart the next morning Jean asked Lottie if she might -iron two hours and let her sew on her pink muslin. - -"You blessed child!" cried Lottie. "I had thought I must sit up all -night to get it done for tomorrow. Two hours will be a great lift." - -Ironing was hot and hard work, beside being extremely unpleasant work -to Jean; but she pushed the two hours into three, and never was so -happy in her life as when her oldest sister gave her an unaccustomed -kiss, which was even better than her words: "I won't forget this, -Jeanie." - -Wednesday morning Jean remembered that, as a stranger, she must learn -something about the village and the village people. Bensalem was a -pretty village with one long street, two churches, one store, a -post-office, and an old school-house. She had another thought to-day; -this, too, grew out of something Mrs. Lane said at Sunday-school. -"Bind something, if you can; make some good thing fast, like forming -a little society." - -How she would like to do that! She counted over the girls she liked -best. There were nine, and ten would form a society, bound fast -together. This she regarded as a very promising new thought. But what -should it be for? Jean pondered a great deal, but she could think of -nothing but her "outing." - -Her outing! Why shouldn't it be an Outing Society--not to get up real -vacations for people, but to get them out of themselves, and into the -way of helping things along, and beginning right at home. For that -was the curious part of it--that you didn't have to go away anywhere. -It seemed to come to you. - -Jean resolved to call on the girls and tell them about it, and ask -them to come to her house and talk it over. She knew now what she -would call it: The Outing Ten. - -First she would call at the Parsonage and tell Miss Marion about it, -and ask her what to do first and next. - -But she could not tell Miss Marion about it all herself; perhaps -Judith Mackenzie would go; Judith knew Miss Marion better than any of -the girls. She was always staying at the Parsonage "for company" for -Miss Marion. - - - - -XII. A SECRET ERRAND. - - - "Say not 'small event'! Why 'small'? - Costs it more pain than this, ye call - A 'great event,' should come to pass, - Than that? Untwine me from the mass - Of deeds which make up life, one deed - Power shall fall short in or exceed!" - - --Robert Browning. - -On the lounge in the sitting-room, Judith lay cuddled up with a rare -ailment for her, a throbbing headache; Aunt Affy had brought a pillow -from her own entry bedroom, and bathed her forehead with Florida -water; then brushed her hair for a long time and told her a story -about her far-away girlhood, "when Becky and Cephas and I had our -good times. Not that we don't have good times now; Becky has hers up -yonder, and poor Cephas and I do the best we can for each other down -here." - -Judith wondered why she should say "poor Cephas"; he had laughing -eyes, and a merry laugh, and everything that happened to him seemed -just the very best thing that could happen. - -Aunt Rody had brewed a bowl of bitter stuff and stood threateningly -near while Judith lifted her dizzy head and forced herself to taste -it. - -"More," urged Aunt Rody. - -She tasted again. - -"More," insisted Aunt Rody. - -She tasted several times with a look of pitiful appeal that Aunt Rody -resisted. - -"More," commanded Aunt Rody. - -"I can't," sobbed Judith, but she obeyed, and Aunt Rody set the -yellow bowl on a chair by the sofa, that she might taste it whenever -she felt like it. - -Homesick Judith hid her face in the small pillow as soon as she was -left alone, and cried; she cried for her mother not a year dead, for -her father whom she scarcely remembered, for the pretty room she had -with her mother in her own city home, for her picture of the Madonna -with the child, that Aunt Rody declared popish and would not suffer, -even in Judith's own room; then she cried because Miss Kenney had not -come yesterday, as she half promised, and then because Aunt Rody had -made Cephas say that she should not run about in the fields with him, -but stay in the house these wonderful days and sew carpet rags; and -then, if she cried about anything she cried in her sleep; a soft step -was in the room, the lightest touch covered her with Aunt Affy's -fleecy white shawl. - -"Sit down," whispered Aunt Affy's voice, "she is fast asleep; she is -a good sleeper, we shall not disturb her; I shouldn't wonder if she -had fits of home-sickness; she never tells; we are all old folks; -Rody thinks she doesn't need any more schooling because she can do -sums and writes such a handsome hand, so she doesn't go to school--and -doesn't know many young folks. Rody never _did_ understand young -folks, you know that." - -"I should think _you_ knew that," replied the other whispering, -indignant voice. "So Cephas is back again; he was gone five years, -wasn't he?" - -"Five this last time, three the other time." - -Judith stirred, pushed the white wool away from her face, and -listened. - -"He was good to go," replied the still indignant voice. - -Judith made a soft rustle; Aunt Affy did not heed it. - -"Yes, he _was_ good," assented Aunt Affy's sweet, old voice, "he is -always ready to do the thing that's happiest for me. He was so -homesick and wrote such heart-rending letters that I couldn't stand -it. Rody sniffed, as she has always sniffed at us, but she said he -might come back if we were both so set on it, so shamelessly set on -it." - -Judith's little protesting groan was not noticed; then she shut her -eyes and listened, because she could not help it. - -"It's a burning shame, and the sister you have been to her, too. You -took your money and bought your sisters out that you might keep the -old place for Rody." - -"I wanted it for myself, too," was Aunt Affy's honest reply. - -"But you could have taken your money and married Cephas--" - -"But, you see, she never could bear the thought of my marrying at -all; she doesn't dislike Cephas so much, but she wants me all to -herself. She doesn't like men, I'll allow that; she never had any -kind of happy experience herself, unless it happened before I was -born, and she doesn't _know_. After Becky died, Cephas and I had to -comfort each other; Rody never was a great hand at comforting, and -the other girls were all dead or married. She had been a mother to me -all my life; I was a two week's old baby left in her care; and Becky -was only two years old; we were her two babies." - -"You had whippings and scoldings enough thrown in, I'll be bound," -was the visitor's tart rejoinder. - -"The scoldings are thrown in now," said Aunt Affy, with the glimmer -of a smile; "I am only a girl to her; I shall never grow up to her; -not old enough to be married, sixty years old as I am. Cephas told -her yesterday that he would fix up the old house with his own money, -he has considerable laid by, and she dared him to pull off a shingle -or drive a nail. He said she should always be the head of the house, -and she said there was no need for him to tell her _that_. You see -that we could not be happy in making her old age unhappy. She is so -old that defiance might kill her; she is eighty-four." - -"I'd _let_ it kill her then," said Miss Affy's life-long friend. - -"No, you wouldn't. Your sister is your sister, and she is all the -mother I ever knew. Cephas and I jog on together like two old married -folks. She says we will be glad when she is under the sod and we can -have our own way." - -"She might let you have it now, and then you wouldn't be glad," urged -Jean Draper's mother. - -"She cannot let us have it; her own will is too strong for her; when -she gives up to us she will die." - -"Then I'd do it anyway," counselled the other voice. - -"We did talk of that, but we are afraid to--she is so old," whispered -Aunt Affy, feeling faint with the very thought of it. - -"Well, it's an old folks' romance, and I didn't know old folks had -any," said the woman who was married at sixteen. - -But the girl on the lounge with her face in the pillow had listened; -she had listened and learned something Aunt Affy would not have told -her for the world. - -How could she ever look into Aunt Affy's face again? And, oh, how -could she ever love Aunt Rody? - -She groaned, and Aunt Affy came to her and asked if she felt worse. -The neighbor went out on tiptoe; Aunt Rody came from the kitchen to -stand threateningly near while Aunt Affy coaxed mouthful by mouthful -the draining of the bitter bowl. - -While Aunt Rody was taking her nap that afternoon Jean Draper knocked -on the open kitchen door. Judith and Aunt Affy were washing dishes -together at the kitchen sink; Judith gave a cry of pleased surprise -at the sound of the knock and the vision of the girl in the doorway. - -"O, Jean, I _wished_ for you," she said, with the longing for young -companionship in her heart. - -"And I wanted you. I am going to see Miss Marion on a secret errand, -and I can't do it without you. Can you spare her, Miss Affy?" - -"If her head will let her go," began Miss Affy, doubtfully. - -"Oh, that's well," cried Judith, joyfully, "but what will Aunt Rody -say?" she questioned in dismay. - -"I will take care of that," promised Aunt Affy, anticipating with -dread the half hour's scolding the permission would bring upon -herself. - -"You are making her a gad-about just like yourself," the monologue -would begin. - -"Are you _sure_, Aunt Affy, dear?" asked Judith, anxiously. - -"Yes, sure. Run away and put on your new gingham." - - - - -XIII. THE TWO BLESSED THINGS. - - - "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and - He shall direct thy paths." - - --_Prov._ iii. 6. - - "How excellent a thought to me - Thy loving-kindness then shall be! - Thus in the shadow of Thy wings - I'll hide me from all troublous things." - -"My life is like Africa; there are no paths anywhere," said Marion. -She was not petulant; the tone was not petulant; Marion knew she -thought she was bearing her life bravely. The study was cool and -darkened that August afternoon; she lay idly upon the lounge, a fresh -magazine in her lap, and a pile of books on the carpet within reach -of her idle hands. - -A year ago she thought she loved books--and music, and life. - -Roger liked to have her near him while he wrote and studied, but he -did not like her idle moods. This latest one had lasted two days. - -He pushed his large volume away, and taking up an ivory paper cutter -began to run its sharp edges across his fingers. Marion was easily -hurt; he could not advise work as he did yesterday. - -"If your life were like Africa," he began in an unsuggestive tone, -"you would have a beaten track wherever you turned; no unmapped -country in the world is better supplied with paths than this same -Africa that your hedged-in life is like. Every village is connected -with some other village by a path; you can follow ziz-zag paths from -Zanzibar to the Atlantic; they are beaten as hard as adamant; they -are made by centuries of native traffic." - -"I have learned something about Africa," she answered, demurely, "if -not about my life." - -"Which are you the more interested in?" - -"Oh, Africa, just now. I am not interested in my life at all." - -"Marion, dear, is Bensalem a failure?" - -"Yes, as far as I am concerned. Not for you, dear old boy; it is -splendid for you, and for Bensalem. Even Judith listens in church." - -"I know she does. I write my sermons for her." - -"For a girl? How do you expect to reach other people, then?" she -inquired, surprised. - -"The inspiration came to me, that Sunday she told me she was sorry -for not listening, to begin all over again--to look at life from a -fresh standpoint, from the standpoint of youth, ardent, hungry, -sensation-loving youth--" - -"Sensation--" - -"Not in its usual acceptation; truth cannot but give you a sensation; -I knew it would not hurt the old people and the middle-aged to begin -again; to enter the Kingdom of Heaven as a little child, and I have -attempted to teach the children in the Kingdom of Heaven; to talk -simply about the grand old truths; to keep that girl before me as I -thought out my sermons--a thoughtful girl who has had some experience -in life, and when a thought or the expression of it was over her -head, I struck it out." - -"Now I know your secret. 'Simplicity and strength' are your -characteristics, David Prince, our literary blacksmith, who wrote -Bensalem up for the Dunellen _News_, was pleased to say. Shall you -keep this up?" - -"Until I find a better way," he said, contentedly. - -"Everybody listens." - -"Even Miss Rody," he said, smiling at the memory of Miss Rody's face. - -"And all the other old folks. Old folks and children. What about the -young men and maidens?" - -"Aren't 'simplicity and strength' good enough for them?" he inquired, -seriously. - -"It's good enough for me." - -"Not quite," he answered. - -"Why?" - -"You listen, of course." - -"But I do not grow fast enough? Roger, I've stopped growing. I knew -something was the matter with me, and that's it." - -"A pretty serious _it_." - -"I know that better than you can tell me. I wish Judith Grey -Mackenzie--how Aunt Rody brings that out--would give _me_ an -inspiration." - -"Bring her here for a week and I'll promise that she will." - -"Aunt Affy could not spare her. Her yellow head is the sunshine of -that old house. But I'll have her some day. I wish I _owned_ her." - -"I wish you did. I would buy her myself if I had money enough." - -"I wonder who _does_ own her," said Marion; "I forgot that she does -not belong to anybody." - -"She does belong to somebody. Her mother gave her to Aunt Affy." - -Perhaps she belonged somewhat to her "Cousin Don." - -Roger never talked about Don. He never read aloud to her the foreign -letters she saw so often on the study table. - -A sigh came of itself before she could stifle it; the idle fingers -opened the magazine; Roger's pen began to race across the paper. -Voices on the piazza brought Marion to her feet; Judith's voice was -in the hall. - -"O, Miss Marion, we came to tell you--" began Judith. - -"And to ask you how--" continued Jean. - -"To make an Outing Ten," finished Judith. - -At the tea-table Marion told Roger the story of how Jean had an -outing. - -"I wish you might have heard the unconscious way she told it. My life -_is_ like Africa: all beaten tracks. I am to be the President of the -Outing Ten. All Bensalem is to be my own special private outing, but -nobody is to know it." - -"Then, Marion dear, you will have the two most blessed things on the -earth." - -"What are they?" - -"Don't you know?" - -"You think work is one," she said doubtfully. - -"So you think. And companionship is the other." - -"Roger, dear, I'm afraid I haven't given you companionship; I've been -stupid, self-absorbed, idle--" - -"Anything else?" - -"But you have been desolate, sometimes." - -"My work has been my companionship." - -"Then there is only one blessed thing to you," she said, merrily. -"May you get it." - -"I am getting it every day." - -"Then you do not inwardly fret against the limitations of this bit of -a village--" she began, frightened at herself for the suggestion: "I -thought, perhaps, you were _bearing_ Bensalem." - -"So I am, I hope," he answered, gravely, "in my heart, and in my -prayers." - -"I beg your pardon," she returned, flushing under the "splendid -purpose in his eyes." "I might have known you were too broad to feel -narrowed, as I do." - -"You remember what Lowell says: 'There are few brains that would not -be better for living for a while on their own fat.'" - -"And that is better than the fat of the land--which you will never get -in Bensalem." - -"I think I started from my new standpoint without worldly ambition. -Think of Paul writing the Epistle to the Romans from a literary point -of view." - -"Well, then," with a laugh that was half a grumble, "I despair of -you, if you 'take pleasure' as he did in all sorts of infirmities and -limitations--I was beginning to be ambitious for you. You spent all -the afternoon last week with Agnes Trembly's mother, reading to her, -and telling her stories--you do not take time to _study_ as you used -to study. You were such a student. Now all you care for is people--and -the Bible," she ran on, discontentedly; "What does Don think of you?" -she asked, with a sudden flush. - -"He is in despair," he replied, thinking of Don's latest letter of -angry expostulation. - -"He is ambitious," said Marion, reproachfully. - -"So am I," he answered, smiling at the reproach. - -"But in such a way. I like ambition. I would like to do something in -the world myself." - -"The man, or woman, or child, who does the will of God is every day -doing something in the world," he said, seriously. - -For a moment she was silenced, then urged by her own discontent she -burst out:-- - -"But five hundred or a thousand people might as well listen to you, -and be influenced by your 'strength and simplicity,' as this handful -of Bensalem." - -"The perfect Teacher was more than once content with but one -listener." - -"Yes; but his sermon was written and handed down to all the ages," -she answered, in a flash. - -"If one life here in Bensalem is moved, and another life moved by -that, who can tell how far down the ages the influence may go? -Beside, that is not my care," he said, in his rested voice. - -"But _wouldn't_ you, now, candidly, rather influence ten hundred -lives than one hundred?" - -"Candidly, I would." - -"And, yet, you have refused a call to Maverick, and stay stupidly -here." - -"Stupidly is your own interpretation. I will be content to move one -man if I might choose the man. I am determined to learn what can be -done in a village by one man who stays for the 'fat of the land,' the -youth. From Drummond's standpoint, only the boy himself and the young -man understand the boy. My outlook just now is from the standpoint of -that big-eyed, sensitive-lipped Joe, and your Judith. Men and women -are but boys and girls grown tall. I find out the boy; you are -helping me to the girl." - -"I am glad I can help," said Marion, satisfied. - - - - -XIV. AN AFTERNOON WITH AN ADVENTURE IN IT. - - - "Lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil." - - --_Luke_ xi. 4. - - "Lord, Thou knowest all things: Thou knowest that I love Thee." - - --_John_ xxi. 17. - -It was rag-carpet afternoon; it was also another kind of an -afternoon, an afternoon with an adventure in it, and Judith longed -for adventures; but, of course, all she knew, at first, was the -rag-carpet; the adventure was to happen in the kitchen, and the -rag-carpet ball was happening in Aunt Affy's room. - -Judith was a working member of the Outing Ten, but if her outing -meant this rag-carpet ball it was very discouraging, and if it were -not for the pleasure of telling the President about the rag-carpet, -she thought she would resign and become member of a ten that had more -fun in it. - -But then, Miss Marion was doing this kind of thing herself, things -she did not like to do about the house, for she had sent away her -servant and was doing all the work excepting washing and ironing, -and, perhaps, in the village, too, she was doing uncongenial errands; -but, of course, she would never tell the Outing Ten about that; she -was going out to tea and making calls, as she had said she never -_would_ do when she came to Bensalem, and she was taking her music -back and practicing hours every day, and reading solid books, instead -of novels; she had let books and music go for a while, Judith had -heard her say to Aunt Affy, and that Jean Draper's outing had been -the blessing of her life. It was Nettie's blessing, too; she told -Marion she had an "outing" every day; she was patching a quilt and -studying history. - -The history study was a part of Marion's outing, but the Ten did not -know that. - -Aunt Affy, wearing a calico loose gown of lilac and white, was seated -in a rocker at the window combing her long gray hair: her hair was -soft and thick, she twisted it into a coil, and behind her each ear -she brushed a long curl. - -Judith liked to twist these curls around her fingers when she talked -to Aunt Affy. - -"Only a little more to do," encouraged Aunt Affy, giving her coil a -firm twist. - -Sitting on the matting at Aunt Affy's feet the little girl began her -weary work again. - -"Aunt Affy! How did you get your name?" she inquired with the -eagerness of something new to talk about. - -"How did you get yours?" asked Aunt Affy, seriously. - -"But mine is a real name." - -"Isn't mine?" - -"I never heard it before." - -"Some people have never heard of Judith." - -"That is true. Nettie never had." - -"Mine is in the Bible. So is Rody's." - -"_Is_ it? Well, I've never read the Bible through." - -"I will show it to you." - -"Aunt Affy, you and Aunt Rody never look in the glass when you comb -your hair. You sit anywhere. It's very funny." - -"When you have combed your hair sixty and eighty years you will not -need to look in the glass," was the serious reply. - -"It isn't sixty," said literal Judith. "You did not do it when you -were a baby." - -Taking her New Testament in large type from the small table near her, -Aunt Affy found the place and laid it on the arm of her chair; Judith -lifted herself and read where Aunt Affy's finger pointed: "And to our -beloved Apphia--but that isn't Affy," said astonished Judith. - -"It grew down to it when I was a girl, and has never grown up. Shall -I find Rody?" - -Again Aunt Affy found the place, and Judith read. "'And as Peter -knocked at the door of the gate, a damsel came to hearken named -Rhoda.' That's very funny," she said, settling down among her rags. - -"There were eight of us girls, and we all had Bible names: Rody, -Dark, that was Dorcas, Mary, Marthy, Deborah, that's your mother's -mother, Hanner, it is really Hannah, Becky, and Affy the youngest, is -eight. Rody and I only are left. They were all married but Rody and -Becky and me. Cephas was engaged to poor Becky, and she died; he went -away after that, went South, went West, and at last came here; I -wrote to him to come and finish his days with me. Rody wasn't exactly -pleased." - -"Why?" asked Judith, excited over the old folks' romance. - -"She doesn't like new happenings, and she never _had_ liked Cephas." - -"She scolds him," said Judith, with a feeling of sympathy. - -"She scolds me. She scolds the minister. It is only her way of -talking." - -At that moment Aunt Rody's blue gingham sunbonnet appeared at the -window; Judith's nervous fingers worked hurriedly. - -"Not done yet. Jean Draper is worth two of you. The graham bread is -out of the oven, a perfect bake, and I am going to call on Mrs. -Evans, and take Nettie a custard." - -"Well," said Aunt Affy. - -Aunt Rody's hair was white, but if it were soft to the touch, -Judith's fingers would never know; her black eyes were deep set, she -had not one tooth, and her wrinkled lips had a way of keeping -themselves sternly shut, unless they were sternly opened. - -"Joe is hunting eggs; I hope he won't get into mischief while I'm -gone." - -"He hasn't yet," said Judith, Joe's champion. - -Joe, with his closely cut black hair, his grateful eyes, new gray -suit with navy blue flannel shirt, rough shoes, willing and efficient -ways, and his great love for Doodles, was some one not at all out of -place on the "Sparrow farm;" even dainty Judith did not altogether -disapprove his presence at the table. - -The small disciple's forehead was all in a pucker, and the blue eyes -were so filled with tears that there was not room enough in her eyes -for them; one tear kept pushing another down over her cheeks; they -even rolled over her lips and tasted salt. - -"Have you noticed the name on my new darning yarn?" inquired Aunt -Affy, replacing the New Testament on the table. - -"Superior quality," read Judith, taking the card from the basket Aunt -Affy brought to her lap from the table. - -"No; on the top." - -"Dorcas," read Judith. - -"Dorcas. Who is that for?" - -"The name of the man who made it," replied Judith, stopping her -dawdling and threading her needle. - -"I think not." - -"His little girl's name, perhaps," ventured Judith. - -"It may be, for aught I know; but I do not _think_ that is the name -of the wool." - -"Then I don't know," said Judith, interestedly. - -"I know something and I will tell you. A long, long, _long_ time ago, -there was a little girl; I think she learned to sew when she was a -little girl, for she knew how to sew beautifully, and her work was -strong and did not rip easily. Perhaps she began by doing -disagreeable things and then went on to other things until she -learned how to make coats and garments for children and grown-up -people. Her name was Dorcas." - -"Did the man who made the wool into yarn know about her?" asked -Judith. - -"I think so. Almost everybody does." - -"I never heard of her before. Is that all?" - -"No; that is only the beginning. She was a disciple. And disciples -always love each other and work for each other." - -"Do they?" asked Judith, her face glowing. Why, that was splendid and -easy. - -"And she worked for widows and perhaps for their little children, and -they loved her dearly. But she died, and oh, how they grieved! They -sent for another disciple, Peter; they thought he could help them. -His faith was so great that he kneeled down and prayed; then he spoke -to her, and she opened her eyes, and looked at him, and then she sat -up. And then he called the people she had made coats and garments -for, and in great joy they had her back alive again. God was willing -for her to come back to earth and go on with her beautiful work. He -cares for the work of his disciples, even when it is only using -thread and needle." - -Judith's curly head drooped over her hated work; she was so ashamed -of behaving "ugly"; she hoped she had not behaved quite as ugly as -she felt. - -The ball was the required size at last, and she joyfully took it up -in the garret to the barrel that was only half filled. - -Then, aimlessly, she wandered into the kitchen, and there, odorously, -temptingly, under a clean, coarse towel, were the two loaves of warm -graham bread; she thought she cared for nothing in the way of bread, -cake, or pudding as much as she cared for fresh graham bread and -butter. - -And Aunt Rody never _would_ put it on the table fresh. For a slice of -this she must wait until tomorrow night. - -Lifting the coarse towel she peeped, then she touched; another touch -brought a crumb, such a delicious crumb; another, and another, and -another delicious crumb, and the crust of one end of a loaf was all -picked off. - -"Oh, deary _me_!" cried Judith, in dismay. - -Then she covered it carefully, standing spellbound. - -What would Aunt Rody say to her? - -What would Aunt Rody _do_ to her? - -Afraid to go away and leave the bread that would tell its own story, -afraid to stay with it, for Aunt Rody's sunbonnet and heavy step -might appear at any moment, she went to the sink to pump water over -her hands and to decide what to do next. - -Joe was on his way to the barn and stables to gather eggs; Aunt Rody -had made a law that she should not go into any of the outbuildings -without permission,--without _her_ permission; in summer time there -were "so many machines and things around, and children had a way of -stepping into the jaws of death." She missed hunting the eggs. - -The gate swung to, there was a step on the flagged path; with her -hands dripping, she flew up the kitchen stairs; on the landing she -waited, breathless, to hear what Aunt Rody would say. - -The step was in the kitchen, there was a pause,--Aunt Rody must be -uncovering the bread; a smothered exclamation, then a quick, angry -voice: "_That_ Joe! He's always doing something underhanded. He's too -fond of eating; I will not say one word, but he shall not have any of -_this_ graham bread, or the next, if I can help it. When he asks for -it I'll tell him before all the table-full that he _knows why_." - -The awful sentence was delivered in an awful voice; tearful and -trembling, the culprit up the stairway heard every word; it was her -dreadful secret, her guilty secret; she no more dared to rush down -the stairs and confess the theft than she dared--she could not think -of any comparison. - -She fled through the large, unfurnished chamber, known as the -store-room, to her own room, and there, bolting the door, threw -herself upon the bed and wept as she had never wept before; because -she had never been so wicked and frightened before. Joe would be -punished for her sin; she would not dare confess if Aunt Rody starved -him to death. - -"Judith, Judith, come out on the piazza," called Aunt Affy. - -She peeped in the glass: her eyes were red, and her hair was tumbled; -the latter was nothing new, she could sit in the hammock with her -eyes away from Aunt Affy. - -As she stepped from the sitting-room door to the piazza, Joe rushed -around the corner of the house, an egg in each hand, frightened and -out of breath. - -"There's an earthquake--in the southern part of Africa--and I've been -in it; and I'm afraid the house will go in; oh, what shall we do? Mr. -Brush is up in the field--" - -"Stand still, Joe, and get some breath to talk with, and then tell us -what has happened to you," said Aunt Affy, quietly. Joe dropped on -the piazza floor, still carefully holding the eggs. - -"Will the house rock and come down, do you think, Aunt Affy, as the -houses did in the book Judith read?" - -"How did you get all that earth on your clothes and tear your -shirt-sleeve?" Judith inquired, forgetting her red eyes in the latest -adventure. - -"In the earthquake; I went in almost up to my neck, but I held on -with one hand and didn't break the eggs." - -"Where _was_ the earthquake?" she asked. - -"In the sheep pen. I was looking for eggs, and the first I knew I -felt the ground sliding, and I was going down--there was water, for I -heard it splash. I thought you said _fire_ was inside the earth; I -went down into water. And I caught hold of something with one hand -because I had two eggs in the other, and I pulled, and pulled, and -pulled myself up and out." - -"Why, Joe, you poor boy," exclaimed Aunt Affy, in alarm, "that old -cistern has caved in at last, and you've been in it; you might have -been drowned. What a mercy that you are safe. Don't you go near that -sheep pen again until Mr. Brush says you may." - -"I'll _never_ go near it again--I've had enough of it. I _couldn't_ -scream--I tried to, but nobody heard. Are you sure it won't cave in -again, and get here, and swallow up the house?" - -"_That_ will not," laughed Judith, "Oh, you queer boy." - -"Then may I have some bread and butter?" he asked, rising. "I think -it will turn me crazy if it caves in again." - -"Aunt Rody is in the kitchen; tell her your story and ask her for the -bread," replied Aunt Affy. - -Judith trembled so that she could scarcely stand; she dared not -follow Joe; she dared not stay where she was: Aunt Rody herself made -a way of escape for her by coming to the kitchen door with a slice of -graham bread in her hand. - -"Here, Joe: I heard your story. Here's the bread. I hope you'll -behave yourself after this. Now, Judith, you see the reason I keep -you from hunting eggs. You might be dead in that cistern this moment." - -"You couldn't pull yourself up as I did," remarked Joe, giving Aunt -Rody the two eggs as she handed him the graham bread. - -Judith drew a long breath of relief. Now she need never tell; Joe -would not be punished. - -That evening at family prayer Cephas read about the institution of -the Lord's Supper and the betrayal of Christ: Joe shuffled his feet -until a look from Aunt Rody quieted him; Judith looked as if she were -listening, but she did not catch the meaning of a single sentence -until something arrested her rapid, remorseful thinking: "And when -they had kindled a fire in the midst of the hall, and were set down -together, Peter sat down among them. But a certain maid beheld him as -he sat by the fire, and earnestly looking upon him, and said, This -man was also with him. And he denied him, saying: Woman I know him -not." - -Peter was afraid. He was afraid to tell that woman. The small -disciple looked at the old lady sitting in her high straight-backed -chair, with her long hands so still in her lap, her lips tight shut, -her eyes roving from Joe to Judith, and then to Joe, then the -dreadful round again, and she thought the woman that frightened Peter -must have been like Aunt Rody. - -She knew how afraid Peter was. - -She did not hear one word of the long prayer; she knelt near Aunt -Rody; she tried not to sob, or to be afraid, but she _was_ afraid; -not now of being found out, but afraid that she was wicked. As long -as she lived she would never dare to tell. - -And she never did tell, not as long as Aunt Rody lived. - -For many a day her heart was heavy with the sin of allowing the -innocent to be suspected; but she was not a very brave small disciple. - -One night at prayers she surprised them all by saying suddenly and -vehemently: "I don't care if Peter _was_ so wicked; I like him better -than anybody in the whole Bible." - - - - -XV. "FIRST AT ANTIOCH." - - - "How beautiful it is to be alive! - To wake each morn as if the Maker's grace - Did us afresh from nothingness derive, - That we might sing: How happy is our case, - How beautiful it is to be alive." - - --H. S. Sutton. - -It was Saturday afternoon; Judith had been busy in the kitchen all -the morning with Aunt Rody, and she (not Aunt Rody) had kept her -temper; that was one happening that made the day memorable and -delightful, and then there were three others: one was her miracle, -another the maidens that were going out to draw water, and the -disciple from Antioch, and, most memorable of all, the plan for -boarding-school. - -The miracle happened in this way: Aunt Rody sent her to take a basket -of things to Nettie Evans, a "Sunday surprise," Judith called it; -tiny biscuits, jelly cake, and a little round box of figs. - -Nettie had had a wearisome day (very much more dreadful than a -Saturday morning in the kitchen with Aunt Rody, Judith told herself), -and Mrs. Evans thought it better for her not to go up to Nettie's -room, for the pain in her back was better, she had fallen asleep and -she was afraid to have her disturbed. - -"May I get a drink of water?" Judith asked. She always felt thirsty -when she came near the plank that formed the ascent from the ground -where the kitchen had been to the bit of floor that was left for the -sink to stand on. The old kitchen had been torn down this summer, and -nothing remained of it excepting the sink which contained the pump -(the water came from the well where Nettie's lilies grew), the window -over the sink, the roof overhead, and the walls on each side of the -sink. She liked the fun of running up and down this plank, and she -liked to stand and look out of this window toward the east. It was a -window toward the east. Sometimes she thought about the Jews praying -toward the east. She wished once that something would happen to this -window because it _was_ a window toward the east. A window facing the -east in a house was not at all remarkable; but a window that was not -in a house brought itself into very interesting prominence. - -And this afternoon her something happened. There was a wonder in the -heavens. - -It was afternoon; she knew it was, she was sure of it; dinner was -over hours ago; Aunt Rody had helped her wipe the dinner dishes, and -Aunt Affy had gone to town with Uncle Cephas to take the week's -butter to her customers; and she was on her way to the parsonage to -sing hymns with Miss Marion, the hymns for church to-morrow, and she -_never_ went till afternoon. But there it was. The sun was in the -east in the afternoon; round, peering through mist with a pale, -yellow splendor; she saw something that no one in the world had ever -seen. It was the sun rising in the afternoon. - -It must be a miracle; a miracle in the window towards Jerusalem. - -But the sun surely had not stood still ever since morning; it was -high up when she stood in the back yard and rang the dinner bell for -Uncle Cephas and Joe. - -Was it a miracle just for her? - -That _was_ the east; it had been the east ever since she was born; it -had been the east ever since the the world was made; and it was the -_sun_. - -It was nothing to see the full moon in the east; the last time she -went driving with Miss Marion and Mr. Roger they saw the full moon in -the east and he talked about it. This was not the full moon. - -"Mrs. Evans, Mrs. Evans, quick, quick," she called, excitedly, -fearing that her miracle would vanish. - -Hurried steps crossed the new kitchen and Mrs. Evans appeared. - -"What _is_ it, child? Don't wake Nettie." - -"Look," said Judith, with the dignity of a youthful prophetess, -pointing to the apparition; "see the sun in the east in the -afternoon." - -Mrs. Evans stepped up the plank, and looked. It _was_ the sun in the -east in the afternoon. - -"Well, I declare!" ejaculated Mrs. Evans, "that does beat all I ever -saw. Where did it come from? How could it get there?" Startled, she -turned, and toward the west, there was the big, round sun shining in -all his glory. - -"Oh, I see," with a breath of relief; "I thought the world must be -coming to an end. It is the reflection. Look, don't you see? the sun -is opposite the window. But it _is_ a wonderful sight. I wish it -would stay until I could call the neighbors in." - -Judith looked at the west and reasoned about it; she turned toward -the east, then to the west, then to the window again. - -"So it is," with an inflection of disappointment. - -Mrs. Evans laughed softly and hurried back to the new kitchen. - -Judith pumped her glass of water with the radiance of two suns in her -face. - -"Little girl, little girl," called a voice from a buggy in the road, -"will you direct me to the parsonage?" - -"Go on straight up the hill, turn to the right and see the church; -the next house is the parsonage," she replied with ready exactness. - -"Thank you," said a second voice, with a foreign accent; the face -bent forward was very dark, with dark eyes, and dark beard. - -Half an hour afterward she found Miss Marion in her own room, and -before they went down to the parlor to the piano, she and Miss Marion -read together in First Samuel. - -They were reading the Bible through together; Marion told her brother -that it was a revelation to her to read the Bible with a girl, and an -old woman; it was looking forward and looking backward. - -Judith read her three verses and then gave a joyful exclamation:-- - -"'And as they went up the hill to the city, they found young maidens -going out to draw water, and said unto them: Is the seer here? - -"'And they answered them and said, He is, behold he is before you; -make haste, now, for he came to-day to the city, for there is a -sacrifice of the people to-day in the high place; as soon as ye be -come into the city, ye shall straightway find him, before he go up to -the high place to eat, for the people will not eat until he come, -because he doth bless the sacrifice; and afterwards they eat that be -bidden. Now, therefore, get you up; for about this time ye shall find -him.' Oh, Miss Marion, that is like me. I was getting a drink of -water and I sent two men to find the Bensalem seer." - -"Even Saul couldn't find the way without the maidens," reflected -Marion. - -"And they were put in the story for all the world to read about; I -wish people wouldn't forget about girls now-a-days." - -"Who does?" asked Marion; "this is the girls' century." - -[Illustration: "I wish people wouldn't forget about girls -now-a-days." "Who does?" asked Marion; "this is the girls' century."] - -"Nobody ever thinks about me. I am never _in_ things like the other -girls. Aunt Rody will never let me go anywhere; Aunt Affy coaxed her -one day, and cried and said she was spoiling my girlhood, but Aunt -Rody was worse than ever after that. I cry night after night because -she will not let me go to boarding-school. Boarding-school has been -the dream of my life; I make pictures about it to myself. Did _you_ -go to boarding-school?" - -"Yes, for one year, and was glad enough to go home again. I wish you -would come to school to _me_; do you suppose you could?" asked Marion -with a sudden and joyous inspiration. - -"O, Miss Marion," was all the girl could reply for very gladness. - -"We will plan about it, Roger and I. If you can come and stay all day -and study, and take music lessons, three or four days a week, it will -be better than boarding-school for you, and more than you can think -for me. You have been on my mind, but I didn't dare propose anything; -I knew Aunt Affy would not be allowed to have her way." - -Both Judith's arms were about Marion's neck, with her face hidden on -Marion's shoulder. - -"I've wanted a sister all my life," she said laughing and crying -together. - -Sunday morning on entering church her attention was arrested by a -large map stretched across the platform, or half-way across it; the -pulpit had been removed and in its stead were flowers, a row of pink -bloom and shades of green. - -A tall gentleman, with the very blackest hair and beard she had ever -seen, arose and stood near the map. - -How her heart gave a throb when he said, touching a spot on the map: -"That is Antioch, the place where the disciples were first called -Christians. I was born in Antioch, where Paul and Barnabas preached -Christ. I was born in Antioch, and I was re-born in Antioch." - -Judith held her breath. He was a disciple, a Christian come from -Antioch. She drew back, almost afraid; she felt as if Christ must be -there standing very near this disciple. - -He talked about the beautiful city and made it as near and real as -this little village in which there was a church of disciples. It was -like seeing one of the twelve disciples, Peter, or James, or John; or -perhaps Paul, because he had been in Antioch. - -But he said he had been "reborn" there; what could he mean? Re--again; -born again. Was he born twice in Antioch? She had been born only -once. Must every disciple be born over like this disciple who was -born both times in Antioch? - -For a long time she puzzled herself over this new, strange thing; -then, when she could not bear it any longer, she asked Aunt Affy. - -"When he was born, and for years as he grew up, he did not love and -obey Christ, and then the Holy Spirit gave him a loving and obedient -heart, and that loving and obedient heart is so new that it is like -being born over again," was Aunt Affy's simple, and sure unraveling -of her perplexity. - - - - -XVI. ONE OF AUNT AFFY'S EXPERIENCES. - - - "O, Master, let me walk with Thee - In lowly paths of service free; - Tell me Thy secret; help me bear - The strain of toil; the fret of care." - - --Washington Gladden. - -The dream of Judith's girlhood was coming true in a most unexpected -way; she did not go to boarding-school, but boarding-school came to -her in Bensalem; four days every week she studied at the parsonage -with Miss Marion, her cousin Don's "brown girl"; the dinner was the -boarding-school part; often she was persuaded to stay to supper, and -sometimes there would be an excuse for her to remain over night. - -Aunt Rody thought the excuses were much oftener than need be; she -said "it seemed" that something was always going on at the parsonage; -the parsonage was a worldly place with games, and company and music. - -Cephas replied that the parsonage folks were not going out into the -world, but bringing the world in and consecrating it; she must not -forget that "God so loved the world." - -Aunt Rody retorted that He commanded his people not to love it, -anyway. In his slow way Cephas replied: "He never told His people not -to love it _His_ way." - -The worldliness was not hurting Judith; nothing was hurting the -little girl her mother left, when she shut her eyes upon all that -would ever happen to her. - -How it happened that she went to boarding-school she never knew; she -knew Aunt Affy cried and could not sleep all one night, that for once -in his sweet-tempered life Uncle Cephas was angry, and as he told the -minister, "talked like a Dutch uncle to Rody"; she knew a letter came -from cousin Don to Aunt Rody herself, and that Aunt Rody did not -speak to anybody in the house, excepting innocent Joe, for three -whole weeks. - -In spite of Aunt Rody, Agnes Trembly made new dresses from the -materials Miss Marion took Judith to New York to select, and a box of -school books was sent by express, and another box with every latest -thing in the way of school-room furnishing. A bureau in Miss Marion's -room was placed at the disposal of her goods, and one corner of a -wardrobe was made ready for her dresses. - -Still, with all her happy privileges, there was no place she called -home; she said: "Aunt Affy's" and "the parsonage." - -Once, speaking of Summer Avenue, she said "home" unconsciously. She -rarely spoke of her mother. All her loneliness and desolation and -heartaches she poured out in her letters to cousin Don. He -understood. She never thought that she must be "brave" for him. - -Nothing since her mother went away comforted her like her -boarding-school. - -During one heart-opening twilight she confided to Marion about -casting lots in the Bible to find out if she would ever go to -boarding-school. - -"What _did_ you find?" asked Marion. - -If she were shocked she kept the shock out of her voice. She told -Roger afterward she was almost too shocked to speak. - -"The queerest thing that meant nothing: 'And a cubit on the one side -and a cubit on the other side.'" - -"I am glad you found that," said Marion, "I think God wanted to help -you by giving you that." - -"But it _didn't_ help; how could it?" - -"It helps me." - -"It doesn't sound like a Bible verse; it is just nothing," persisted -Judith. - -"God's words can never be 'just nothing.' Those words were something -to somebody, and they are a great deal to me. Do you remember -something Christ says about a cubit?" - -"No; did he ever say anything?" - -"He said this: _Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit to -his stature?_ You were taking thought to add something to your life. -Your thought-taking has not done it," said Marion, thinking that her -own thought-taking had added no cubit to her own life. - -"No, indeed; I never should have thought of the parsonage -boarding-school. Who did think of it besides you, Miss Marion?" - -"Several people who love you. If you had never thought of it, it -would have been thought of for you. In that same talk Christ told the -people: Your heavenly father knoweth that ye have need of all these -things: _for_ your heavenly Father knoweth; that's why we do not have -to think about the cubits. I think I'll give Roger '_For_ your -heavenly Father' for a text." - -"I am so glad," said Judith, with radiant eyes, "I love that 'cubit' -now." - -"So do I. I will certainly ask Roger to preach about our cubit." - -"But don't let him put me in," protested Judith. "I should look -conscious so everybody would know I was the girl. Jean Draper will be -sure to know." - -"He will not let it be a girl. He will make it somebody who was -superstitious, and anxious, and did not trust God, nor know how to -learn his will. Trust Roger for that. I always know when he puts -people in, for we talk it over together; he puts me in so often that -I am accustomed to being made a text of; and his own mistakes and -failures are in all the time." - -"I thought mine were," acknowledged Roger's attentive and -appreciative listener. - -"And Uncle Cephas is sure his are in," laughed Marion. "I think it is -only the outside of us that isn't alike." - -Very often Judith was allowed to sit in the study with her books and -writing. - -Mr. Kenney told her that she never disturbed him, that he would be -disturbed if she were not there with her books and table in the -bay-window. - -"Ask me a question whenever you like," he said one day. - -But her questions were kept for Miss Marion. The year went on to -Judith in household work, in study, in church work and "growing up" -with the village girls; Nettie Evans and Jean Draper were her chief -friends. The year went on to Marion. June came; the new minister and -his sister had been a year in Bensalem. - -Marion told him that his sermons were growing up, because his boys -and girls were growing up. - -In this year Marion Kenney had discovered Aunt Affy. - -She said to her one afternoon in the entry bedroom: "I was hungry to -find you; I knew I wanted somebody. I knew you were in the world, -because if you were not in the world, I should not be hungry for you." - -"'If it were not so, I would have told you,'" said Aunt Affy, in the -confident tone in which she always repeated the Lord's own words. - -Judith heard the words: the wonderful words, and in her fashion, made -a commentary upon them: when things were not so, and couldn't be so, -God told you, so that you needn't be too disappointed; he wouldn't -let you hope too long for things _and build on them_--that is, if you -were not wilful about them. You might think just a little while about -a thing, and not be silly about it, and if it were not so you would -soon find out. She had found out about boarding-school--only she had -been pretty bad about that all by herself, and did not deserve to -have Miss Marion for a teacher. - -_Was Miss Marion paid?_ She had never thought of it until this moment. - -It was "rag carpet afternoon." Judith coaxed Aunt Rody to allow her -to take her half-finished ball and pile of rags up garret again, -after Miss Marion came, but Aunt Rody sternly refused: "When I was a -little girl I did my stent, company or no company. You can see Miss -Kenney after you are through." - -"But I am so slow," sighed the rag-carpet sewer. - -"Be fast, then," was the grim advice. - -Judith and her carpet rags were on the floor of the entry between the -two bed-rooms; Aunt Rody was sitting in her bed-room in a rocker -combing her long gray hair; the door of Aunt Affy's room opposite was -open; Aunt Affy was seated in her rocker mending the sleeve of a coat -for Cephas; Marion Kenney in her privileged fashion had come into the -back yard and knocked at the open entry door. - -Lifting her head, Judith saw her in the rush-bottomed chair; she had -thrown her hat aside, her face was toward Aunt Affy. - -Marion Kenney was Judith's ideal; she was such a dainty maiden, with -brown hair and brown eyes, the most bewitching ways, and so true. - -It was happiness enough for Judith to sit or stand near her to watch -and to listen; and, this afternoon, she had to sit in the entry far -away from her and sew carpet rags. - -"Aunt Rody," called Marion across the hall, in an audacious voice, -"may Judith bring her ball and rags in here?" - -"Affy doesn't want that room cluttered up," was the slow, ungracious -response. - -"Oh, yes, I do," said Aunt Affy, eagerly. "I like it cluttered up." - -"Go then, Judith," was the severe permission; "you are all children -together, I verily believe." - -With a merry "Thank you" Marion sprang to help gather the rags, and -deposited them and Judith on the rag carpet between herself and Aunt -Affy. - -If it had not been for the rags and the ball that grew so tediously, -there would have been nothing in the world for Judith to wish for. - -"Aunt Affy, I brought a question to-day, as I always do," began -Marion, and Judith's fingers stayed that she might hear the question -and the answer. - -She did not know how to ask Marion's questions, but she did know how -to understand something of Aunt Affy's answers. In her spiritual and -intellectual appreciation she was far ahead of anyone's knowledge of -her. She had a talent for receptivity and, girl as she was, for -discipline. - -"If you had read the Bible through forty times, as Aunt Affy has, you -would know all the answers," said Judith. - -"Forty times," repeated Marion, in amazement. - -"I did not tell her; she found it out," replied Aunt Affy, with -humility; "I read my mother's Bible, and Judith found dates and -numbers in the back of it, so I had to tell her it was the number of -times I had read it through." - -"You were as young as I when you began," said Marion. - -"I was twenty; I felt so alone somehow, that year, I yearned for it. -I read it through in less than a year, then I began again, and next -year again, now it is second nature; I should be lost without it." - -"What _is_ second nature?" asked the girl on the floor, among the -carpet rags. - -"It is something that is so much a part of yourself,--that comes after -you have your first nature--that it is as much your nature as if you -were born first so," answered Aunt Affy with pauses for clearness. -"You feel as if you were born the second time, and it would be as -hard to get rid of as though you were born the first time with it." - -"Carpet rags will never be my second nature," sighed Judith, picking -up a long, red strip. "I wish reading the Bible would." - -"Aunt Affy, it is only this," began Marion, again, flushing a little -with the effort of bringing her secret into spoken words. "I want -somebody to do good to; I have my class in Sunday school, and that is -a great deal, but it doesn't satisfy--and there must be somebody; if -it were not so, I wouldn't be so hungry to do it. I say it with all -humility; I know there is something in me to give, and it is growing. -But I don't know how to find somebody." - -Judith's fingers dropped the long, red strip; it would be a story to -hear Aunt Affy tell Miss Marion how to find somebody. - -"Then, you are just ready to hear my story." - -"I knew you had it; I saw it in your face." - -"It is one of the true stories, the stories as true as Bible stories, -that you and I are living every day." - -How Judith's face glowed. Was _she_ living a true story? As real as -the Bible stories? - -"God helps and hears now, as quickly, as willingly, as sufficiently, -as he did in the old Bible times; we live in the new Bible times. I -heard a woman once wishing for a _new_ Bible, the old Bible seemed -written so long ago, and about people who lived so long ago. We are -making a new Bible; our life is a new Acts of the Disciples." - -And she was in it? How could Judith think of carpet rags? Unless -carpet rags were in it, too. - -"I like that," said Marion, "for Acts has been called the Gospel of -the Risen Lord, and we know He _is_ risen, and with us in the Holy -Spirit." - -Aunt Affy was silent a moment; like Judith her fingers stayed and -would not work. - -"Yes," she said, too satisfied to say another word. - -"Aunt Affy's Bible is full of marks and dates," said Judith, "as if -she were writing her new Bible in her old one." - -"Now I'll tell you how I found somebody. I wanted somebody to give -to, as you do. I felt full of good things to give. The village was -more full of young people then; now the boys go to the city, or away -off somewhere, then they stayed and married village girls. There were -people enough, but I did not know how to find the one willing to take -something from me. So I prayed about it: my giving, and the somebody. -The first thing I learned when I began to live in the Bible was to -pray about everything as Bible folks did--I wanted to do all the right -things they did, and shape my life as near to God as some of them -did." - -Aunt Affy never talked as naturally as when talking to girls; she -felt that step by step she had been over their ground. As Rody said, -Affy had never grown up. A woman apart from the world, she lived a -wide life; every day her clear vision swept from childhood to old -womanhood. - -"Before the answer came I read in the Old Testament (for all these -things happened for our sakes, the New Testament tells us, throwing -light on the old stories), three verses in the first chapter of -Judges. How I studied it. And how much for myself I found in it--and -for you. Joshua was dead; the children of Israel had no human -counsellor, so 'they asked the Lord.' They knew he would speak to -them as plainly as Joshua had. They had work to do, as you and I -have; God's own planned work. They asked who should go up first to -the work; the Lord said: Judah. That was plain enough. As plain as he -says to you: 'Marion, do this.'" - -"_How_ does he say it to me?" - -"In two ways. First by giving you something to give. Then giving you -the longing to find somebody, to give to." - -"Yes," said Marion, in a full tone. - -"With the permission he gave a promise." - -"I _like_ a promise to work on; I feel so sure," said Marion, -brightly. - -"This promise was: Behold I have delivered the land into his hand. It -is given to him, still he must go and get it; he must work and get -it. God does not often put ready-made things into our hands; if he -did we would not be co-workers." - -Judith understood. Aunt Affy would not have thought of telling these -things to Judith. - -"That is his way of working for us, working _in_ us. His work does -not interfere with our work, only makes our work sure and strong. We -speak the words; he keeps them from falling to the ground. Judah was -the strongest tribe; he had been made ready for pioneer work; the -first thing he did was to speak to Simeon, his brother, and say: Come -with me. He found somebody to work with him. But he had to go first. -He chose Simeon. We may choose somebody to work with us." - -"But, Aunt Affy, I meant somebody to work _for_," replied Marion, who -had a mission to somebody. - -"There is nobody in the world to work _for_; it is always somebody to -work with. We are all co-workers with God. The somebody you wish to -find is a co-worker, too. Why not? Has God chosen only _you_ for His -work?" - -Marion looked ashamed; frightened at herself, and ashamed. - -"How could I be so proud?" - -"Oh, we all can," said Aunt Affy, smiling. "And this brings me to my -own story." - -"The new Bible," said Judith, eagerly. - -"One day I asked our Father to bring some one to me; my life has -never been a going out, for Rody could never spare me, it has been a -bringing in, instead; then I came in here and read about Judah and -Simeon, and waited. The waiting is always a part of it." - -"Why?" asked Judith impatiently. - -"Because God says so; that is the best reason I know. And my somebody -came. Somebody to help in the work planned for both of us. And the -happy thing about it (one of the happy things) was that the somebody -started to come to me before I began to ask. Sometimes, people say -things will happen if we don't pray; perhaps they will, it is not for -me to say they will not, but the happening will not be in _answer to -prayer_, and that has a joyfulness of its own, that nobody knows -except the One who answers and the one who prays. That is a joy too -great to be told. Sometimes, I know that I have been as happy over an -answered prayer as I _can_ be. And I can be very happy," Aunt Affy -said, with happy tears shining in her eyes. - -"This somebody was not anybody new, or strange, or very far off; when -I thought about it there was no surprise in it; it was somebody who -had been coming to meet me a long while--in preparation. Then, we were -ready to be co-workers in a very simple way, making no stir, but I -trust our work together will not prove hay or stubble in the last -day. It was somebody I chose myself; we do a great deal of our own -choosing. But it was God's work and God's workers, like Judah and -Simeon. There was prayer first, and Judah using his knowledge and -judgment. No wonder God could keep his promise; they helped him keep -his promise, as you and I do. Do you remember what Andrew did after -Jesus called him and asked him to spend that day with him? '_He first -findeth his own brother._'" - -"My only brother _is_ found," said Marion. "Now some one else may be -'first.'" - -"And I haven't any," said listening Judith. "But I have my cousin -Don; I wonder about him." - -"We each have our own; whoever we find is our own. This is our own -world," Aunt Affy replied in her happy voice. - -Marion's question was answered. Aunt Affy always understood what was -surging underneath her restless, foamy current of talk. - -Since she had known Aunt Affy she had grown quieter; she had come to -Bensalem "in a fume," she told Aunt Affy, and the air, or -"something," was making things look different. - -Aunt Affy smiled her wise, sweet smile; she knew the time came to -girls when things had to "look different." - - - - -XVII. THE STORY OF A KEY. - - - "What time I am afraid, I will - Trust in Thee." - -Aunt Rody had a way of bringing her work and sitting somewhere near -when Marion came; the girl's vivacity, and gossip of village folks, -gossip in its heavenliest sense, attracted the hard-visaged, -hard-handed, sharp-tongued old woman. - -An afternoon with Marion Kenney was to the old woman, who never read -stories, what a volume of short stories is to other people; stories, -humorous, pathetic, and always with a touch of the best in life. And, -somehow, the best found an answering chord in something in Aunt Rody. - -But for that something nobody could have lived in the house with Aunt -Rody. - -The door across the hall was open; all was quiet within the small -bedroom. - -For the world Aunt Rody would not acknowledge any weakness by -bringing her chair into Affy's room, or even into the entry. She was -not fond of company; and all Bensalem knew it. Cephas asked her years -ago if she wanted to be buried in a corner of the graveyard all by -herself and the brambles. - -"Heaven is a sociable place, Rody, and you might as well get used to -it." - -Aunt Affy's story was done, there was no sound in the other bedroom; -Judith picked among her colored strips. - -"I had a letter from my cousin Don last night, Miss Marion," said -Judith, "and he said he was glad I loved the parsonage." - -"Did he?" asked Marion, twisting one of Judith's curls about her -finger. - -"O, Judith, I know you want me to tell you a story," she said -hastily, as Aunt Affy slipped on her glasses again and took the coat -sleeve into her hand. To Marion that coat sleeve was a part of Aunt -Affy's "new Bible." - -"Oh, yes," replied Judith, with pure delight. - -"Judith would have enjoyed the age of tradition," said Aunt Affy; -"just think," in her voice of young enthusiasm, "instead of reading -it, what it would be to hear from Andrew's own lips the story of that -day." - -"We are living there now," said Marion; "I am. The title of my life -just now is 'The Parsonage story of Village Life.' But the story I -want to tell Judith to-day is an episode in my own life. Seven years -ago. I haven't even told Roger yet, and I tell him everything. I -think I never told any one before. I used to be at the head of things -in those days; father was often away, and the children were all -younger, except Roger, and mother wasn't strong. We lived in an old -house in a broad city street, away back, with a box-bordered yard in -front, and lilacs, and old-fashioned things behind; we were all born -there, even Roger, the eldest, and our only moving times was in the -spring and fall cleaning. Once a friend of mine moved, and I was -enough in the moving times to be there at an impromptu dinner; we -stood around a pine table in the kitchen, or sat on anything we could -find, a firkin, or peach basket turned upside down, and they let me -eat a piece of pie in my fingers. All I wanted was to do something -just like it myself. And when mother said I might stay all my -birthday week and help Aunt Bessie move, I thought my ship had come -in, laden with moving times. - -"Aunt Bessie lived in the city in a beautiful home, but something had -happened that summer; Uncle Frank was in Europe and could not come -home, and Aunt Bessie and the children had to go into the country for -a year. - -"The 'country' was only seven miles away; first the train, then the -horse cars, and, then, a two-mile drive. - -"The wagons from the country came for the things Monday morning; -there were two big loads (everything else had been sold), and in the -country home we expected to find new and plain furniture that had -already been sent from the stores. - -"Monday the children and I had a hilarious time at dinner; moving -times had begun, and I _did_ eat a piece of pie in my fingers. I was -too full of the fun of things to notice that Aunt Bessie ate no -dinner, and Elsie and I were teasing Rob in noisy play after dinner, -and did not see that she was very white and scarcely spoke at all. - -"'Marion,' she said at last, 'I cannot conquer it; I've tried for -half the day and all night; I cannot hold up my head another minute; -one of my terrible headaches has come upon me. Jane will have to stay -here with me and baby and Rob--do you think _you_ could--but no, you -couldn't--it's too lonely for you--and I may not get there to-night.' - -"'Go to Sunny Plains alone--and have an adventure! Oh, Aunt Bessie! -It's too good to be true.' - -"Unmindful of her headache I clapped my hands, and danced Rob up and -down. It was all my own moving time. - -"'But, Marion, what would your mother think?' she protested, weakly; -'of course there are near neighbors--and you might take something to -eat--and, if I do not get there, you must go across the way and stay -all night. The old man who had the two white horses--you remember him, -said he was our nearest neighbor, and he hoped we would be -neighborly. He said he had a daughter about your age--you might ask -her--if I _do_ let you go--to stay with you all night.' - -"'But, after all,' looking at our trim, colored maid of all work, -'perhaps Jane may better go and you stay with me. And--' - -"'Oh, no, ma'am, oh, no, indeed, ma'am,' tremulously interrupted Jane -(she was only two years older than I). 'I couldn't think of it; I -should die of fright. I never lived in a wilderness, and I expect to -give warning the first week, for I never can bear the country.' - -"'Now, Aunt Bessie, you see I have to go,' I persuaded. 'Jane can't -help being afraid--and I didn't know how to be afraid--really, I don't -know what to be afraid of. Let Elsie go with me, and we'll do -everything ourselves--have the house all in order for you to-morrow -morning, and have the most glorious time we ever had in our lives. My -Cousin Jennie isn't fifteen, and she stayed a week over alone in the -country while Uncle and Auntie were away. Oh, _do_ let us go, Aunt -Bessie.' - -"'Somebody must, I suppose,' half consented Aunt Bessie, who was -growing whiter every moment; 'Elsie, are you brave enough to go with -Marion?' - -"'Yes, mamma,' said nine-year-old Elsie, in her grave little way, -'_but I don't know what the brave is for_.' - -"'I'm glad you don't,' smiled her mother. 'Well, Jane--I hope I am not -doing wrong--fix two boxes of lunch--and, you know you take the train -to Paterson and then the horse-cars to Hanover--I will give you five -dollars, Marion, you will have to take a carriage at Hanover--but you -know all about it--you went with me to look at the house--and you know -where to have the furniture put as I told you that day--and you can -get things at the store--half a mile off--Jane, you will have to keep -Rob and baby--Marion, I don't know _what_ your mother will say--it's -well there was a load of things left so that I may have a bed -to-night--' - -"During this prologue my feet were dancing, and my fingers rubbing -each other impatiently, I was so afraid she would end with a -sufficient reason for not allowing us to go. I could not believe that -we were really off until we sat in the train, each with a huge, -stuffed lunch-box, and I with five dollars in my pocketbook and my -head confused with ten thousand parting directions, among which was, -many times repeated: 'Be sure to _ask_ that girl to stay all night -with you.' - -"At the terminus at Hanover we got out and stood and looked around. -Elsie was a little thing, but she was wise, and I liked to ask her -advice. - -"'Aunt Bessie found a horse and a carriage at the blacksmith's shop -that day, didn't she?' - -"This was hardly asking advice, but Elsie brightened, and answered -deliberately: 'We walked on a canal-boat, then, to the other side, -for the bridge was being built.' - -"'Then we are in the right place, for there's the new bridge,' I -exclaimed, relieved, for I missed the canal boat we had that day made -a bridge of. - -"'And we went down that way to the blacksmith's shop,' she said -pointing in a familiar direction. Yes, I remembered that. The -immensity of my undertaking was beginning to press upon me; I was -glad I had brought Elsie. - -"With a business-like air we crossed the bridge, and walked along a -grass-bordered path to the blacksmith's shop; there seemed to be two -shops in the long building; before one open door a horse was being -shod, before the other a group of men stood with hands in their -pockets watching a fire that had died down into a red-hot circle--the -circle looked like red-hot iron. As we waited for the horse to be -harnessed and brought, Elsie and I stood across the street watching -the red-hot iron ring--as large as a wagon wheel. - -"Elsie looked as though she were forgetting everything in that red -wonder, and I began to feel a trifle strange and lonely, for my -little cousin was so self-absorbed that she was not much company. - -"'Hallo, there!' called the blacksmith as a boy drove a two-seated -wagon out from behind somewhere. - -"With my best business air I asked the price before we stepped up -into the wagon and replied, 'Very well,' to his modest one dollar. - -"The drive was beautiful; Elsie looked and looked but scarcely spoke. -But she did exclaim when we crossed the railroad, at the tiniest -railroad station, we, or anybody else, ever saw. - -"It was a brown shed, without a window even--the door stood wide open, -there was no one within, no stove, no seats, no ticket office. - -"'Well, we are in the wilderness,' I said aloud. - -"And then, the 'store.' I wish I could tell you about that store. It -was about as large as--a hen-coop, everything, everything in it. I got -out and went in, for Aunt Bessie had asked me to inquire for letters -which she had directed to be sent to Sunny Plains. The post-office -was a rude desk and a few cubby-holes up on the wall above it; I saw -a letter laid on a meal sack--this place behind the store seemed to be -both post-office and granary. - -"'I'll be down by and by--you are the new people, I suppose; I saw -your things go by,' remarked a pleasant young man behind the counter; -'I'll come for orders. I hope you will trade with us.' - -"'Thank you, I suppose so. And I wish you would bring some kerosene,' -I said, remembering that I must burn a lamp all night. - -"Along the half mile on the way to the new house were scattered -several farmhouses, then came the church, and churchyard, and, on a -rise beyond the churchyard, a pretty house. - -"'_That's_ it,' Elsie said, 'I know the house.' - -"The key was in the possession of the white-haired old man with the -two horses, and his house was opposite the church. - -"Elsie was too shy to go to the door and knock and ask for Mrs. -Pettingill's key, but I was very glad to go; I began to feel that I -would like to see the girl who would stay all night with us. She -answered my knock, a tall girl, with an encouraging face. She brought -the key, saying the wagons were all unloaded; two had come Saturday -with things; her father had said my mother and all the family were -coming before night. - -"'Aunt Bessie was too ill,' I replied, glad to have the neighborly -subject opened so easily, 'and she said I might ask you to come over -and stay all night with Elsie and me.' - -"'Oh, I couldn't,' she answered, hastily; 'I'm going away--I'm all -dressed now. I'm sorry, too,' she added, sympathetically, at -something in my face, 'but I can't disappoint my grandmother; she -sent for me because she is sick.' - -'Then, of course, you will have to go. (Then I began to know what -'brave' meant.) Thank you for the key.' - -"Up the steep, weed-tangled drive we went to the side door; the -boy-driver unlocked the door for us, giving a view of the moving -times within. I paid him his dollar, and he drove away, leaving us in -the wilderness. - -"Elsie stood and looked around as usual. - -"It _was_ a wilderness, a wilderness everywhere; the two-story house, -painted brown, with red trimmings, was set in the middle of a large -field; it had been untenanted for two years; the hedgerows had grown -luxuriant, the grass was knee-deep; the house faced the west (the -driver told me that), and the west this August afternoon was an -immense field of cabbages bordered by tall trees; above it was the -sky, beyond that might be anything, or everything; at the east -stretched a mown field, dotted with trees, an apple-tree that looked -a hundred years old near the fence, then a thick woods, over the top -of which ran a line of green, low hills; among the greenness a red -slanting roof was visible; at the south stretched other fields, among -the trees a white house, with outhouses, a well-sweep; at the north, -beyond two fields, in which cows were pasturing, in a grove, a thick, -green grove, was the churchyard, with rows and rows of white stones, -now and then a white or a granite monument; the brown church-tower -arose above the tree-tops. And this was my wilderness for a night, -with the sky, the protecting, loving sky over all, and bending down -to enfold us all into its sunshine. - -"'It's pretty,' said Elsie. - -"'Yes, it is pretty. Now we must go in and go to work.' - -"The opened door led into the small dining-room; small and so -crowded; as my big brother said, there was a place for everything, -and everything was in it. - -"The front parlor, back parlor, hall, all crowded; up stairs there -was nothing but emptiness and roominess. - -"The kitchen, such a pretty kitchen, was crowded with everything, -too--and a pine table, a firkin, and an up-turned, or down-turned -peach basket. - -"I was in a whirl, an ecstasy, an enthusiasm; but as somebody -remarks, nothing is done without enthusiasm; now what should I do -with mine, that, and nothing else? - -"Suddenly, to Elsie's great perplexity, I gave a shout and rushed out -the dining-room door, and down through the tangles into the road. - -"I had espied two men, working men, in shirt sleeves, with coats -thrown over their arms. Farmers, or farmer's sons, probably, great, -true-hearted sons of the soil, knightly fellows who were ready to-- - -"'Are you--do you know anybody--' I began, breathless, and with flying -hair. - -"They stopped and gazed at me. - -"'We have just moved in. I would like things moved, and bedsteads put -up, and boxes opened.' - -"'We can do it,' said one promptly. - -"He had lost one eye; the other eye looked honest. - -"'Yes, we're out of the work,' said his companion. - -"He had a stiff neck; he did not look quite so honest. - -"'Can you come now?' I faltered. - -"'Yes, right off. Come, Jim,' was the cheerful response. 'All we want -is to be told what to do.' I could always tell people what to do; at -home I was called the 'manager.' - -"For two hours I kept those men busy; Elsie, with grave eyes and -sealed lips, followed us about. I tried to forget the stiff neck, and -the eye that did not look honest, and had forgotten both, when there -was a heavy rap on the open dining-room door. - -"There stood the young man from the store. - -"I had forgotten that I did not like those two busy men, who never -spoke unless spoken to, still I was glad enough to cry when I saw -this familiar and friendly face. - -"I had known him so long ago I could tell him anything. - -"'H'm. Somebody to help you,' he said, stepping in, pad and pencil in -hand, for an order. - -"The men were in the back parlor; one was unpacking a box of books, -the other was sweeping. - -"Yes," I replied confidently, "I needed help and I called them in. I -don't believe--" my voice sinking to a whisper, "that they are tramps, -do you?" - -"Oh, no. They are hatters. They have been about here two or three -years; the factory is closed. The worst thing about them is drink. -They will drink up all you give them. Still, it was hardly a right -thing for you to do." - -"Elsie's arm was linked in mine, her big eyes fixed on the young -man's face. - -"'A thing is always right--after it is done,' I said desperately. - -"'Whew! you are a wise one,' he said quizzically. 'I've brought -kerosene--have you lamps for to-night? Oh, yes, I see you have. Sugar, -bread coffee, tea, what will you have?' - -"I gave the order; he wrote it, then lingered. - -"'They are about done for to-night, I suppose.' - -"'Yes, I shall send them away.' - -"He drove away, and I was left with my hatters. - -"'You have worked two hours,' I said; 'what do I owe you?' - -"The man with one eye looked at the man with a stiff neck. - -"'Fifty cents, eh, Jim?' - -"'That's about it,' said Jim. - -"I did not bring my pocket-book down stairs, there were two bills in -it; I handed each a twenty-five-cent piece with the most reassuring -and disarming air (one air was for myself, the other for them), and -thanked them, hoping they would soon have work at their trade. - -"They said 'thank you' and 'good-night,' and Elsie and I were left -alone. - -"'Aren't you hungry?' asked Elsie, 'It is late and dark.' - -"'So it is: we will have supper in the kitchen--and I will fill a lamp -to burn all night.' - -"That supper was not quite as much fun as I thought it would be; -Elsie munched a sandwich and wished she were home; out the window the -fire-flies were glistening in the tall grass; the gravestones loomed -up very white and tall and stiff. - -"'We'll go to bed early,' I said cheerily, 'and be up early in the -morning to put everything in order. Aunt Bessie will be sure to be -here early.' - -"Elsie followed me up stairs still munching a sandwich. She, too, had -learned what it was to be 'brave.' - -"The hatters had put up a bedstead and laid a mattress on it; the bed -clothing lay in a pile on the bare floor. - -"I made the bed while Elsie finished her sandwich. - -"'May I brush out your hair and braid it?' asked Elsie. - -"'Yes, in a minute. Let's go down stairs and look at all the doors -and windows again.' - -"The fastening on every door and window was tried anew. We were -locked in. The world was locked out. I did not look out again at the -fire-flies. - -"I sat down before the bureau while Elsie stood behind me and brushed -and braided my long hair; doing my hair would comfort her if anything -could. - -"But what would comfort me? - -"My _Daily Light_ I had put in my satchel; I liked to have it open on -my bureau; it was bound in soft leather, two volumes in one: I found -the date, August XV., in the Evening Hour. - -"'Read aloud,' said Elsie. - -"My glance caught the large type at the head of the page. My heart -beat fast, the tears started, but I cleared my throat and read -unconcernedly: 'I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, -and speak comfortably unto her.' - -"'Read it again,' said Elsie, brushing softly. I read it again. Elsie -undressed and crept into bed. - -"'You didn't say your prayers,' I remonstrated. - -"'I like to say them in bed,' she replied. - -"So did I that night. - -"I placed the lamp, burning brightly, on the floor in the hall -opposite my door, leaving the door wide open, then I lay down, and -said my prayers in bed. - -"Elsie was soon asleep; my prayer ended with the earnest petition, -several times repeated: 'Please let me go to sleep quick and stay -asleep all night.' - -"Then I watched the light, and thought about home, and fell asleep. - -"A voice awakened me: Elsie was sitting up in bed:-- - -"'I'll do your hair, Marion,' she said thickly, talking in her sleep. - -"I pressed her down, and covered her; she did not waken. But I was -awake, wide awake, alone in a great wilderness. There was no sound, -no sound anywhere, but a stillness like the stillness of death. - -"Then sh--sh--sh--a hush, a soft pressing against something--a padded -shoulder against a door, a soft fist at a window; then the stillness -like the stillness of death. I was awake; I did not sleep. - -"The soft, soft sound came again and again; the softest sound I had -ever heard, and then the stillest silence. - -"Should I get up, bring the lamp in, and lock the door? - -"But suppose there were no key in the door--it was swung back, I could -not see the inside key-hole; if I should get up and find no key, and -could not lock the door, I should confess to myself that I was -afraid--how could I lie there, with the door shut and not locked, and -be afraid? _I was afraid to be afraid._ I would rather lie there, and -look with staring eyes at the lamp and the wide stairs, and listen, -and listen, with my very breath, and know that I was not afraid." - -"Oh, dear!" cried Judith, with a choking in her throat. - -"Morning came. Oh, that blessed streak of dawn. I arose and slowly -pushed the door so that I could see the lock. - -"_There was no key._" - -"Oh!" cried Judith, with a sudden, sharp breath, cold to her very -finger-tips. - -"That day was the happiest day of my life. I never knew before how -happy I _could_ be. I had learned that I could be kept from being -_too_ afraid." - -"Only just afraid enough," laughed Judith, glad that the laugh was -not frozen in her throat. - -"How I scampered around that day and helped, and scampered around and -didn't help. That was years ago, and I haven't told the story yet. -That _no key_ was one of my turning-points." - -"I wish I might have a turning-point," said Judith, "only I never -could bear to be afraid." - -"Being afraid doesn't hurt," consoled Aunt Affy; "you are glad you -were afraid after you get out of the wilderness." - -"What did your point turn you around _to_?" questioned Judith, who -had learned from her mother that something always happened next. - -"To knowing I would always be safe," said Marion, "no matter how deep -I get into the tangles in my wilderness." - -"Yes," responded Aunt Affy, "we only _think_ we are hurt." - -"Was it all wilderness?" asked Judith. - -"It appeared so to me. We took a drive one day into another -wilderness--Meadow Centre; that was almost more a wilderness." - -"I know Meadow Centre," said Aunt Affy; "Cephas has a cousin there, a -kind of cousin by courtesy, and he is always promising that he will -take me over there. His name is Richard King; he has just come to -take charge of the church. Cephas says he is a splendid worker, as -big as a giant and as simple-hearted as a child." - -"Is he old like Uncle Cephas?" Judith inquired. - -"No, child, he's young like our minister. He preached here before -your brother had the call, Miss Marion; Cephas wanted him, but he -wouldn't leave that going-to-pieces church and congregation over -there. Cephas told him he was staying by the ship to see it go to -pieces, and he said he wanted to see it go to pieces, then." - -"Meadow Centre is a part of my wilderness; I would like to see the -place again. I have a very warm feeling for my wilderness." - -"And now you are in the Promised Land," said Judith; "do people have -to go through the Wilderness first?" - -A warning voice came from across the hall: "I'd like to know if your -ball is getting bigger, Judith." - -Judith's guilty fingers snatched her needle, and she began stitching -a black strip to a brown strip as Aunt Rody had expressly forbidden -her to do. - -"They don't have to _stay_ in the Wilderness," replied Aunt Affy, -"their own naughtiness kept them there." - -"H'm," sniffed the voice across the hall. "I think some people who -behave pretty well are kept in the Wilderness." - -"I like wild places," said Judith, forgetting her ball again. - -"And naughtiness, too," snapped Aunt Rody. - -"Oh, we all like that," laughed Marion; "Aunt Rody, I am coming in -there to tell _you_ a story." - -"Don't want you," grumbled Aunt Rody, in a relenting voice. - -But Marion went. - -"I'm sure you have a story to tell me," Judith heard Marion say, in -the tone Roger Kenney called "wheedling." - -"My story is all hard work, privation, and ingratitude," was the -ready response. - -As Aunt Affy sewed a tear fell on her coarse work, which Judith tried -not to see. - -Judith sewed diligently, wondering the while how she could make a -turning-point for herself. - -"Yes," groaned the voice across the hall, "my past is not pleasant to -dwell on, the present is full of contradictions and being opposed, -and the future--well, I _hope_ I am a Christian." - -"I don't believe you are," whispered Judith softly over her rags. - -A heavy step on the sod under the bedroom window brought sudden color -to Aunt Affy's old cheeks; with her sister's groanings in her ears -she was meditating if it were her duty to ask Cephas to go away -again. Was the Lord asking her to choose between the two? - -Pushing back his straw hat and leaning his shirt-sleeved arms on the -window-sill, the old man stood, with his lover's eyes on the -delicate, sweet face of the woman he had loved thirty years. - -"Well, Affy, how's things?" he asked, joyously. - -"Just as usual," she half sighed. - -"No worse, then?" - -"Not a bit," she answered, smiling. - -"Then I'll get a bite and go back to work again. It does me good to -come and have a look at you and know you are here." - -"Oh, I shall always be here." - -"And so shall I," he answered, confidently. - -After that, how could Aunt Affy but decide once again, and for ever, -that he _should_ always be here. - - - - -XVIII. JUDITH'S TURNING-POINT. - - - "No act falls fruitless; none can tell - How vast its power may be, - Nor what results infolded dwell - Within it silently." - -Judith stood in her night-dress and bare feet on the rug of -rag-carpet before her bed; she was afraid; she was afraid because of -Miss Marion's story; would she go to sleep, and wake up, and wish she -had a key in her door? - -After another hesitating moment she decided to go down stairs to Aunt -Affy's bed-room and linger around, hoping Aunt Affy would ask her to -sleep just one night in that cunning room in that old-fashioned, -tall-posted bed, with ever so many small pillows, and that red and -green quilt of patch-work baskets with handles. - -Slipping on the blue wool shoes her mother knitted, she went softly -down stairs to the entry bedroom. Aunt Rody's door, for a wonder, was -shut; that was one danger past, for if Aunt Rody heard one foot-fall, -without inquiring into it she would certainly send her back to bed. -If she were dying of a broken heart Aunt Rody would never know or -care. But she did not think it was because she would never care to -tell Aunt Rody about her broken heart. - -Aunt Affy's door, like the gates of Heaven, was wide open; by the -light of a small lamp she was reading her "chapters" in the Bible. - -One of Judith's names for Aunt Affy's Bible was "My Chapters." - -"Come in, dear," welcomed the angel within the gates of Heaven. On -the threshold stood the white-robed figure, with her long hair -braided loosely and ending in one curl. - -"Just a minute," pleaded the rather tearful voice; "shall I disturb -your chapters?" - -"No, indeed, you are a part of them, as your mother was before you," -said Aunt Affy, shoving her gold-rimmed spectacles into their case. - -These gold-rimmed spectacles were her last birthday present from -Cephas. - -Judith thought it was funny, but very lovely for such old people to -have birthday presents. Aunt Affy was so choice of these spectacles -that she kept them to read the Bible with. - -"I wanted to come a little while," said Judith, perching herself on -the side of the high bed, her blue-slippered feet not touching the -carpet. - -"I wish you had a sister," began Aunt Affy in the tone that ran on a -long while. "You must have some one to grow up with. You have never -had any one to grow up with." - -"I have Nettie, and Jean, and Miss Marion, and Mr. Roger, and -everybody else, and you and my cousin Don." - -"And we are all growing up together," laughed Aunt Affy with her soft -laugh. "When I was a little girl I had my sister Becky. The other -sisters were all grown up. Eight sisters we were. But some were -married. Father would have us all home on Christmas Days. Such a -merry houseful. Cephas was like the brother we never had. He came a -boy to work for father, just as Joe works for him. Becky and Cephas -and I were always growing up together. Becky was the friskiest thing, -always getting into scrapes and out of them. Rody used to be hard on -us, we thought then; but I've no doubt we were wilful and -disobedient, and gave her heaps of trouble. She always worked hard; -she always would." - -"Why?" asked Judith, with thoughtful questioning. - -"Because it is her nature to put her shoulder to the wheel. She -pushes other peoples' shoulders away. She does not know how to be -helped--not even by the Lord himself. She married off her sisters, she -said, and then all she wanted was to settle down to work and to peace -and quietness. She likes to see people at church; but it frets her -wonderfully to have people come here. If it hadn't been for that I -should have brought your dear mother back here years ago to stay, but -Rody _wouldn't_ hear of it. She can't bear to have her ways -interfered with. She wouldn't sleep one wink to-night if she thought -that pile of papers on the round table wasn't just as she put it. And -it would give her a fever for me to sleep in her bed." - -"But it wouldn't _you_," interrupted Judith, eagerly. - -"Oh, not a bit. Still I never try it. I like my own bed, and own side -of the bed. But I was telling you about Becky; she used to sleep with -me, and no one has since." - -Judith's heart sank. The room up stairs grew desolate and afraid and -homesick. - -"Cephas always liked Becky; they used to do their lessons together, -and when he went to town to learn his trade he asked her to be his -wife as soon as he could build a house to put her in. Father gave -Becky twenty acres on her twentieth birthday, and Cephas was to build -the house." - -"He wasn't bald and white-whiskered then." - -"Well, I think not. He was the handsomest young man in the country, -and the _best_. And a master workman, too. - -"Then father died; he had been queer some time. Rody broke off a -match for him; the old minister's sister, a widow, a good and lovely -woman, and he had mourned years for mother, and Becky and I were glad -to have him comforted; but Rody would not give up her place to any -stepmother, trust her for _that_; and she broke it off somehow, and -the widow married a minister, and father grew queer and then died. - -"Rody had something to repent of, if she only thought of it; only she -never _does_ think. She worked on Becky's feelings about Cephas, but -Becky held on, and wouldn't give him up; so she and I together, when -Rody wasn't looking on, made her wedding things, such piles. I -enjoyed it as if it were to be my own house-keeping; I loved them -both so, and Rody worked hard and was dreadfully cross to us all; and -the cellar for the new house was dug, and Becky was as happy as a -queen. How she sang about the house. Cephas had a shop of his own in -town by this time, and journeymen and apprentices; he _was_ a rusher; -he expected to drive in every day. He wanted a house in town, but -Becky loved the old place and she was always delicate, and he -couldn't bear to cross her. And, then, it's a sad story for young -people, but you must know there's sadness in the world as well as -joy--she died suddenly with fever. I watched her night and day. And -Rody. She was a ministering angel. She died in Rody's arms. Rody had -been like a mother to her. Her things, 'our things' she used to say, -were all packed away. Cephas failed in business--I think he didn't -care much whether he failed or not, and came back to the farm. -Flowers and weeds began to grow in the cellar of Becky's house; it's -only a big green hole now. Cephas wanted me to use her things; he -said Becky would like it, and I knew she would. He comforted me and I -comforted him. Rody didn't like _that_, and sent him away. We comfort -each other now, and always will. Rody can't hinder everything. Why, -child, don't have such big eyes over my story. Becky has been happy -all these blessed years, and Cephas and I talk over old times and -look forward to new times; and, we _would_ like to build a house over -Becky's cellar if Rody didn't fume so. - -"This is her ring that I wear--this plain gold, the only ring I ever -had; she put it on my finger and asked me to be good to Cephas. He -wouldn't take it back. But isn't it your bed-time, Deary?" - -"I wish I might brush your hair," said Judith, slipping off the high -bed. - -But a door creaked, was flung wide open; a night-capped head appeared -in the opposite doorway. - -"_You_ up, Judith Grey Mackenzie. Go right up to bed this minute. -It's just like you, and it's more like Affy. No wonder I couldn't -sleep with voices in the house at this unearthly hour. There! It's -striking nine o'clock. Affy, _you_ go to bed." - -Aunt Affy laughed softly as the creaking door was closed again. - -"I am not grown up either, you see. Perhaps I shall grow up with you. -She wouldn't let me mix the bread to-night, and she never lets me -take the butter out of the churn. And when we go to town shopping she -always carries the money." - -Judith laughed a doleful little laugh, and went bravely up stairs to -her turning-point. - -It was moonlight, but she must light the candle for company; she -would keep it burning all night, or as long as it would burn, if she -dared. - -She would scratch the match where she liked; Aunt Rody had no right -to order her about so; she did not belong to Aunt Rody. She wished -Aunt Affy would let her go to live always at the Parsonage. - -Perhaps Cousin Don would if she wrote and told him all about Aunt -Rody. - -One night last week Aunt Rody had put her head in at the door and -found her scratching a match on the bureau along the crack on its -upper edge; she often did it; but Aunt Rody gave a scream and seized -her by the arm and said angrily; "Judith Grey Mackenzie, don't you do -that again; I'll whip you as sure as you live if I ever see you do it -again. You might set the house on fire. Suppose a spark should fall -into the upper drawer." - -But a spark never had. The upper drawer was shut tight; Aunt Rody had -no right to catch her by the arm like that. And _whip_ her! She -wouldn't dare. She would go to the parsonage and stay until Cousin -Don came after her. - -She was old enough to scratch a match where she liked. - -With a sudden indignant stroke she drew the match under the top edge -of the bureau: a snap and a flash. - -"There," she said aloud, triumphantly. - -She lighted the candle and dropped the burnt match in the tin pail -that served as slop jar. - -It was very quiet down stairs; Joe had gone to bed, Uncle Cephas had -not come home from the session meeting at the parsonage; she wished -he would come. - -Then, the tiniest curl of smoke caught her eye--out of the top drawer; -no, that was tight shut; the curl grew and grew; _it came from the -crack under the top edge of the bureau_. - -Paralyzed with terror she stood and looked. It _was_ smoke. And it -grew and grew. Should she run down and tell Aunt Affy? But Aunt Rody -would hear and come, too. Might she call Joe? But he might tell Aunt -Rody the next day; he looked cross at her at supper time because she -said she would not read aloud to him all the evening. If Uncle Cephas -would only come. But he always stayed late at session meeting--there -it was, slowly, so slowly curling up. - -It was real smoke, and there had to be fire to make smoke. The bureau -would burn first and then--after a long time she remembered that water -would put out fire; what a goose she was to stand there and see the -smoke grow. - -She poured water into the wash-bowl, soaked the wash-cloth, and ran -it carefully all along the crack. - -There, it was out. Nothing to be frightened about. But she would -never do it again. Aunt Rody did not know about that. - -Sitting down on the foot of the bed opposite the bureau, she leaned -over the red rail that formed the foot-board and watched and waited. -Of course the fire was out. Yes--no--yes, there it was again--the curl -of smoke; the water had done no good; the fire was too deep in for -water to get through the crack; the spark had fallen away down _in_. - -In despair she burst into tears; but the tears kept her eyes from -watching the smoke; she brushed her eyes clear and looked; it was -there, and it grew and grew, not dense, not black, but real smoke, -and it kept coming and coming. - -"O Father in Heaven," she cried aloud, "_please stop it; please stop -it_. I don't know what to do." - -Still the smoke was there. Did God see it? Didn't he care? Would he -not answer because she had been so disobedient and because she had -hated Aunt Rody? - -"I will be good after this," she sobbed. "I don't want to be hateful. -I will give up my will to Aunt Rody _when she is right_." It _was_ -fainter; no, there it was again. Would the fire never go out? - -Aunt Rody knew best. Perhaps Aunt Rody knew best about other things. -Perhaps she _was_ a Christian, a real disciple, only a very queer one. - -Now it was so faint, so faint she could not see it at all. It was not -because the tears were in her eyes; it was gone. It _was_ gone. She -felt all along the crack with her finger. It was not hot. And the -smoke _was_ gone. The fire was out; it was all burned out inside that -crack. - -And Aunt Rody need never know. And she would never, never, never -disobey Aunt Rody again. Her mother had always told her she loved her -own will too much; she would never love it so much again; she would -say--what would she say? She knelt on the strip of rag-carpet where -she had seen the girl kneel in her "picture" and repeated softly, -through fast falling tears: "Our Father, who art in Heaven; Hallowed -be thy name; Thy Kingdom come: _Thy will be done_; that was it; _Thy -will be done_, Thy will be done," she repeated joyfully over and -over. "Make me love Thy will best. Make my will a good will, a sweet -will, _an obedient will_." - -She did not know then that it was her turning point. The next day she -_loved_ to obey Aunt Rody. Aunt Rody did not ask her to do one -disagreeable thing; and it was the queerest thing, Aunt Rody said, -when she asked if she might sweep the sitting-room, "That's a good -girl." - -She did not tell any one about her fright over the match excepting -John Kenney, Miss Marion's brother, and Jean Draper. He had come to -the parsonage for vacation. He was a big, handsome boy, as manly as -the minister himself, and as gentle as a girl; one afternoon, when -she and Jean Draper went off on a long stroll with him, and they -began to tell stories of adventure of what they had read, or of what -happened to them, she told her story about how the smoke got in a -crack. - -She only said she liked Aunt Rody better after that. She could not -tell about her prayer. But John would have understood, she was sure. - -He always looked as though he understood everything you meant, but -did not know how to say. - - - - -XIX. A MORNING WITH A SURPRISE. - - - "Routine of duties, - Commonplace cares." - - --F. L. Hosmer. - -The years went on in quiet Bensalem and brought Judith to her -eighteenth birthday; the summers and winters came and went, and the -girl grew. The parsonage was "home," and the farmhouse was "Aunt -Affy's," as it had been ever since she could remember. One July -morning, in this nineteenth year of Judith's story, something besides -the new morning was given to Marion. The parsonage under the -housekeeping of the two, the woman and the girl, was a dainty, -restful, and inspiring home to its three home-keepers, the minister, -his sister, and Judith Mackenzie. - -The relationship among the three was as simple and natural as though -Judith had been born one of the sisters in that old house, with the -three windows in the roof that she had made a picture of for her -mother. - -This July morning, an hour before dinner-time, Marion sat near the -kitchen table shelling peas; she had sent Judith back to the story -she was writing, and refused Roger's help when he put his head in at -the window to say that shelling peas always meant two people and a -bit of confidence. - -"Miss Marion," called a voice from the kitchen-porch; "I am not fit -to come in, I'm just out of the hay field. I've got a letter for you -that's been laid over, and a burning shame it is; and it is the -second time it has happened. To excuse himself he said your box was -full and this slipped out or was set aside. I gave the Bensalem -postmaster a round scolding, and told him the parsonage mail was -always important, and if it happened again I'd go straight to -Washington and report him to Uncle Sam," chuckled the old man to whom -a letter was about the smallest thing in life. - -"Uncle Cephas," welcomed Marion, cordially, "thank you for the -scolding and the letter." - -"I mustn't come in; I brought the minister a load of hay. Don't call -him, I'll find him. Your letter looks rather foreign." - -"Yes," she said, trembling almost visibly after a glance at the post -mark. - -"Double postage too," he said curiously. - -"Yes," she said again. - -"Judith had a foreign letter last night, too." - -"Oh, yes, I see all her foreign letters," she replied with an effort. - -"I must go; don't work too hard. So you like to be your own mistress -and your own maid; no help at all this summer?" - -"No; and once Judith and I did the washing; it was the best fun we -ever had." - -"Our folks say you think you own Judith; but I guess you have as good -a right to her as anybody. You and her Cousin Don; you do the most -for her." - -He nodded, wiped his forehead with his soiled handkerchief, pushed -down his tattered straw hat and went down the steps with a careful -tread. Uncle Cephas was an old man--his age had come upon him -suddenly. Marion watched him as he walked away; it was easier to look -at the load of hay, the hayfield beyond the parsonage garden, easier -to look at anything, and think of anything excepting that foreign -letter. Why should Don write to her? He had not written for five long -years, not once since that letter about Judith from Genoa. Was it -because she had--refused him? - -During all these years it never once entered her thoughts that she -had refused him. - -He did ask her to become his wife--if _that_ were asking. And she had -refused, if that were refusing. - -"Can you have dinner in half an hour?" Roger asked, coming to the -open window near the sink. "I only this minute remembered that I -promised King to drive over this afternoon to talk his parish -difficulties over with him. His housekeeper has gone, did I tell you? -He's keeping house by himself--has been trying it a month, or I'd take -you and Judith for the drive; he would not relish your seeing his -house-keeping. Don't hurry too much; give me a cold dinner with a cup -of coffee." - -"I'll ring the bell in half an hour; Judith will help me," she -replied, hearing the sound of her own voice with every word she spoke. - -The words she was speaking did not touch her own life--nothing was in -her life but that letter in her hand; she had as much of it as she -could bear just now, she thought she would hide it away and never -open it. It was another thing to die and be buried. - -Judith came and began to set the dinner table and to tell her the -last pretty thing Nettie Evans said--Marion moved absently about the -kitchen; the letter was pushed down in her dress pocket. - -When at last she could bear the suspense no longer, she asked Judith -to boil the eggs, and to bring the rice pudding from the cellar, and -went up stairs to her own chamber and shut the door. If she did not -have to bear this--if only it had not come to disturb her peace--she -was satisfied without it. It was a long letter; it was full of -something, her heart was beating so fast and choking her that she -read sentence after sentence without gathering any thought or -incident; it was words, words, words. - -"I expect to sail for home next month; I am tired of being a stranger -and a foreigner. You have never written to me beyond those two words; -but I know what you have been to my Cousin Judith. I think I have -grown old since you saw me; life has grown old if I have not. I know -from the letters of Roger and Judith that you are just the same. -Unless you are just the same I would not care to see you again. Your -old friend, Don." - -She opened a drawer and laid the letter away; she would understand -the rest of it when she was not in such a tumult. Did Roger know he -was coming home? Judith had not told her. Had he told no one but -herself? Did he expect her to tell the others? She had to take her -eyes and burning cheeks down stairs, but she did not have to speak of -her letter yet. And, after all, there was nothing in it to speak of. -It was a letter not worth the writing. - -The girl in the blue gingham, with the yellow waves of hair dropping -to her waist in one long braid, was giving the last touches to the -dinner table set for three; the roses in the centre of the table were -from Aunt Affy's garden. - -"They are talking still--Uncle Cephas and Roger. They will never get -through; they begin in the middle every time. I have been so -interested that I forgot to boil the eggs. There are chops down -cellar; shall I broil them? I always think of Don when I broil chops. -I broiled chops for him that last time I saw him. Do you know I -believe he is coming home soon? He thinks he will surprise me; but I -have guessed it all summer." - -"Yes; get the chops," replied Marion. - -"And you listen there at the window," laughed Judith; "Uncle Cephas -is touching on marriage now. He told Roger he did a wrong thing when -he married Jean Draper to a man who is not a Christian; she is only -nineteen and does not know better, he said. Roger has been trying to -argue himself right; but I don't know how Roger could help that, do -you?" - -"No; Roger couldn't help it; David Prince comes to church regularly -and Roger admires him; Jean's father and mother were willing; I think -Uncle Cephas takes too much upon himself. Roger believes David Prince -is a Christian and doesn't know it. Roger knows it; and Jean does. -But Roger never minds Uncle Cephas." - -Uncle Cephas was speaking with low intensity; standing at the window -Marion listened: at first indignant, then she became interested. -Roger would miss his appointment; perhaps he was so amused with the -old man that he had forgotten his drive to Meadow Centre. - -"You see, dominie, in marriage there's a heap to look at besides -young folks choosing each other, even more than parents being -willing; parents may be mistaken--there's the command that comes -straight and strong. I am as interested in the marriage question as I -am in all the other things that concerns the life of the church and -the community; I've had years enough to study it theoretically," he -went on, with his deep laugh. - -"Which command are you bringing down upon my head now?" inquired the -minister, in a tone of good fellowship. - -"Is it the dominie that asks which? You who should have all the -commands, and promises, and threatenings at your tongue's end--" - -"My tongue would have no end then," replied Roger. - -"And the geography and history of the scriptures, too. I didn't use -to believe in studying the geography of the Bible until that man came -from Antioch, and now I know Damascus and the land of the Chaldees, -and Tyre and Sidon all by heart. Of course you know better than I do -that command Joshua gave the people, and I verily believe it was more -for the women than the men, as I told Affy in talking over Jean -Draper's case; women are naturally religious creatures, bless 'em." - -Judith and the chops were over the fire; Marion stood at the open -window; Judith listened, and burnt her chops. - -"Why, you remember," Uncle Cephas ran on in the familiar voice with -which he talked about his cattle and his crops, "that he told the -people the nations should be snares and traps, and scourges in your -sides and thorns in your eyes until they perished from off the good -land, and the reason was, or would be, that they made marriages with -them." - -"Yes, certainly," interjected Roger impatiently. - -"But that isn't all; don't say 'certainly' in such a matter of fact -way; it was something else; it was making marriages 'with the -remnant,' those that _remain among you_, not the round-about nations, -but the among-you nations, and there's where the danger is, I tell -the young folks; young folks never know their dangers; it is the -believers that don't believe the folks that come to church and don't -confess Christ, that is the hindrance, and the ones that bring -punishment of scourges and snares and traps and thorns; it is like -the half of a truth that is the worst of a lie. David Prince comes -regularly and listens to the truth, and if I do say it to your face, -you put it powerful; and he goes away and by his actions confesses -that he doesn't believe a word you say. I labored with Jean Draper, -but she only cried, like the dear girl she is, and said she couldn't -give him up; not if the whole session said so." - -"She came to me," answered Roger, in his quietest tones, "and I told -her to hold on to him and I would marry them if the session tore me -to pieces." - -"I believe you would," laughed Uncle Cephas. "Well, I've washed my -hands. I didn't expect to hinder anything. I suppose I can trust my -minister if he hasn't come to his gray hairs. I thought that hay was -the first fruits and I'd bring it. You see Bensalem is as dear to me -as the land of Israel to old Joshua and Samuel. The Lord's eyes are -always upon it, and it flows with milk and other good things. No -offence, I hope," he added in his sweet, old, slow voice. - -Roger hurried into the house, and hustled Judith and her chops to the -dinner table. - -"I believe I'll take you this afternoon, Judith; it's time you began -your vacation; all the other boarding-schools closed long ago. You -will see the desolation of the Meadow Centre parsonage and offer your -services on the spot. King can't get a housekeeper to suit him since -Mrs. Foster left. You will suit him exactly; perhaps he likes burnt -chops." - -After the little bustle subsided, Marion asked: "Roger, why didn't -you tell him about Ruth of Moab--Judith and I are just reading _Ruth_, -who married one of the chosen people, and, if Samuel wrote the story, -he made the sweetest love-story that ever was written--and she was one -in the direct line of the ancestry of Christ." - -"Because that would have been in confirmation of his point," said -Roger, breaking an egg carefully. - -"I don't see how," replied Marion. - -Judith listened; Roger never talked for the sake of argument; he -pondered before he spoke again. - -"She deliberately chose the God of Israel to be her God, giving -herself to His worship and His people; Naomi had taught her; Naomi -was a missionary--love of her mother-in-law was not all that decided -her to leave her gods and her native land." - -"I thought it was because she loved Naomi," said Judith, "and that -was so lovely." - -"But Naomi's son married her first," argued Marion; "he had no right -to do that." - -"Perhaps he was punished for it; perhaps both sons were punished for -it; who knows?" - -"But you do not think Jean has done wrong," said Judith, -sympathetically; "it will break her heart if she ever reasons herself -into believing she has disobeyed." - -"Well, no," replied Roger, dryly; "especially as David expects to -confess his faith at the next communion. He would not do it before -for fear that he would do it to please Jean. He did not dare tell -her. He has told no one but myself." - -"Then, Roger, why didn't you tell Uncle Cephas?" asked Judith, in -astonishment. - -"I thought he might as well learn that, even in Bensalem, there are -some people he may misjudge. He knows Bensalem by head, once in a -while, better than he knows it by heart." - -"Did you say you would take Judith to Meadow Centre," Marion asked, -bringing herself back from over the sea. - -"Did I, Judith?" - -"No, you said you believed you would take me," said Judith, -mischievously. - -"I believe it still." - -"Would you like to go?" inquired Marion. - -"I would not like to interfere with any of Roger's beliefs." - -"Then be ready in ten minutes, or you will. I fed Daisy and she has -had to eat in a hurry like her master." - -"But, Marion, I shall leave you with the dishes, and supper--" - -"She couldn't be left in better company," Roger insisted; "don't stop -to change your dress; put on your big hat and we'll be off." - -"Marion, do you want to be left alone?" - -"More than anything else in the world," said Marion, sincerely. - - - - -XX. JUDITH'S AFTERNOON. - - - "Green pastures are before me, - Which yet I have not seen." - -"I suppose King will ask me to exchange with him Sunday," remarked -Roger, putting the reins into Judith's ready hands, after turning out -of the parsonage lane. "Which sermon shall I take?" - -"The cubit one," was her unhesitating reply; "it has been in my mind -to ask you to preach that again for me." - -"But you will not hear it." - -"Unless you take me with you," she suggested with a merry laugh. - -Roger believed that Judith Grey Mackenzie was the merriest maiden in -Bensalem. - -"I would if I were going to dine at the parsonage, but there's no -housekeeper there, more's the pity, I shall take dinner and supper -with one of the deacons, and drive home in the moonlight. You would -like that." - -"All but the deacon." - -"And you wouldn't endure the deacon for the sake of the cubit sermon." - -"Indeed, I wouldn't. What would they think of me?" - -"That you are a very nice little girl." - -"I'm too big a girl, that's the worst of it." - -"That's the best of it--for me." - -"I don't know whether I'm glad of it or not," she said, as frankly as -if speaking to Marion. "The only trouble I have in the world is that -I'm growing up away from being your little girl." - -[Illustration: "The only trouble I have," said Judith, "is that I'm -growing up away from being your little girl."] - -"Don't you dare," he said with playful threatening. - -"I don't dare." - -"As if you could, Lady-Bug." - -"Oh, how that brings back dear old Don. It is the last name he ever -called me--outside of a letter. Don't you believe that he's coming -home soon?" - -"I know it." - -"Do you know how soon?" - -"That is his secret." - -"Oh," drawing a long breath, "I'm too glad. But I don't want to go to -the city and keep house for him, and go to college and have every -advantage, as he says I must do. I've _had_ every advantage; you and -Marion have been my 'liberal education.' Nothing will ever take me -away from Marion." - -"Or your brother Roger." - -"Oh, you two are one. I always mean you both." - -"But hasn't your Cousin Don the best right to you? Isn't he your -guardian or something?" - -"He is my everything--beside you and Marion and Aunt Affy." - -"Then he must do as he thinks best." - -"Am I not to be consulted? I belong to myself first of all." - -"You will be much consulted, no doubt." - -"Then I hope I shall not have to do anything I don't want to. I'm -afraid Don will be like a stranger. I was only a little girl when he -went away. I do not feel at home with _him_, only with the thought of -him." - -"With your thought of him?" - -"And my thought may be very far wrong. O, Roger, do you believe it -is?" bringing her earnest face within range of his too sympathetic -eyes. - -"Tell me what is your thought of him," he said, gently, taking the -reins from her hands. "You see you cannot talk and drive, too. Daisy -was walking into a fence." - -She gave up the reins without any consciousness of the action; she -was looking at her Cousin Don's face as she had told a "picture" of -it to her mother. - -"He is so fine, so unselfish, so true, so considerate, a refuge from -everything that troubles me, a part of my mother to me--I have saved -all his letters, they are my chief treasures. If I should be -disappointed in him the sun would drop out of the sky." - -"Poor little girl," thought the man beside her, tenderly. "Suppose -you are disappointed in me," he asked, lightly; "have you ever -thought about that?" - -"No. I cannot even _think_ that," she said, impulsively. - -"Because you have not placed me on any such pedestal?" - -"Perhaps so," she laughed. - -"_Is_ that the reason?" - -"No, for when I was a little girl I placed my Cousin Don and his -friend Roger on the same pedestal. You haven't tumbled off yet, and -I've been with you ever since." - -"Judith, I do not like that," he answered, seriously; "you shouldn't -look at people like that." - -"I don't. At people. But I do at you, and Don, and Marion, and Aunt -Affy and Ruskin and George Macdonald and Miss Mulock and Tennyson -and--" - -"Then I will not be frightened if we are all there. If one of us -fail, you will have all the others to keep the sun in your sky." - -"Now, give me back the reins, because I have told you." - -He laid the reins in her hand, asking what she had been doing with -herself all the morning. - -"Writing a story." - -"O, Judith, not another one," he exclaimed in pretended dismay. - -"I had to. It was burning in my bones. Don't you know I got five -dollars for the last one?" - -"Can nothing but a five-dollar bill quench the burning in your bones?" - -"Oh, yes; the burning is quenched by writing it. I am quenched now for -quite a while." - -"What was your inspiration this time?" - -"Something you said Sunday evening." - -"Tell me." - -"I will read it to you in your earliest leisure." - -"Do you intend to keep this thing up and be a dreadful literary -creature?" - -"Only as long as the burning lasts." - -"But while you muse the fire burns; you must give up musing." - -"Are you serious?" she asked, troubled. - -"No, dear. Give everything that is _in_ you. That is what it is in -you for." - -"I know that," she answered, confidently. "In almost all your sermons -I find a thought to make a story of." - -"You illustrate me. I am the author; you are the artist." - -"Then how can I go away and keep house for Don?" - -"You mercenary creature, you want to make money out of me." - -"When I was a little girl and thought of writing stories I wanted to -earn money; now I only think of the joy of writing things down." - -"That is creating--like the joy of the Lord. May it last forever--like -his joy." - -Judith was silent from sheer happiness. Her work was so little, but -so dear: Roger and Marion always understood; she was no more shy with -them about her stories than about her thoughts; she gave herself to -them utterly, as she had given herself to her mother. - -The parsonage at Meadow Centre was in Meadow Centre; it was not in a -village, or a _ville_; it was not in any place, but its own place, -where it stood; the church was the nearest building, the post-office -was two miles distant; there were farm-houses scattered about for -miles; the most distant parishioner lived three miles from the church. - -The parsonage, built of wood and stone, a story and a half, with the -trumpet vine climbing luxuriously to its low roof, had passed its -birthday of three-score years and ten. It was old, and it looked as -if it felt old. - -The gate was swung wide open, the path leading to the closed front -door was weed-grown, the flower beds on each side of the path were a -mass of wild, bright bloom. - -"How pretty! How like a picture!" exclaimed Judith, in admiration; -"there's a grape-vine running up an apple tree, and there's the old -oaken bucket. What a pity for no one to live here." - -"Somebody stays here," said Roger. - -"Is it the parsonage? How can they neglect it so?" - -"Whoa, Daisy. The farmers are all busy. King should learn to use a -scythe, and a lawn-mower; he's a born hermit. If he wanted to he -could find a housekeeper; he forgets he hasn't any." - -"But there's no one at home." - -"Oh, yes, he's at home. He's expecting me. The study is in the rear; -he lives in that." - -"But where is his sunshine?" - -"He finds that. He's the best man to find sunshine I know. He is the -sunshine himself." - -The "sunshine" came around the corner of the house, a long linen -duster crowned with a soft gray felt hat; beneath the hat a tawny -beard, and the bluest eyes shining through a tangle of eyebrows. - -"I had given you up." - -"Never give me up," said Roger in a sunshiny voice. "I'm always on -hand, when I am not on foot. Miss Mackenzie, Mr. King. But, excuse -me, you have seen each other in Bensalem." - -"I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Mackenzie; I hope she has -not forgotten me." - -"Judith never forgets. Will you let her go around and browse while we -have our drive? Judith, you don't mind staying alone?" - -"It is not a very nice place for a lady to stay in," the bachelor -housekeeper hastened to say; "I fear I forget when sweeping-day -comes, and I always forget to wash the dishes." - -"Judith will do that for you. Don't forget, Judith," he warned. - -"The woman who comes once a week is ill, and has not been here for -two weeks; I am really ashamed to have Miss Judith come into the -house." - -"She isn't ashamed, she likes it. Give her your hand, Dick, and help -her out; I must hold Daisy." - -Judith stepped down and stood beside the linen duster and gray hat, -fervently wishing she had stayed at home. - -"Roger, how long will you be gone?" she inquired, faint-heartedly. - -"Till supper-time--we have business on hand--if you don't have supper -ready for us I'll lose you on the way home." - -"There's bread in the house, and butter and milk and eggs--but the -dishes--," excused the embarrassed housekeeper. - -"Trust a girl to wash dishes. Will you wear that duster?" - -"I have a coat under it. Wait until I show Miss Judith in; my study -is the only fit place." - -"Show her the kitchen, there's where you need a visitor." - -"The front door is locked," apologized Mr. King. "I am sorry to take -you to the back hall door." - -Judith's courtesy and kindliness failed her; Roger deserved a -scolding for bringing her to such a forlorn place; what could she do -with herself two or three hours? - -The doorway into which she was shown led into a narrow carpeted hall; -the study door stood open; books in book-cases, on the floor, on a -table, books and dust, a coat on a chair; the light from two windows -streamed in. - -"If you care for books you will find something to do--the latest -magazines are somewhere. My housekeeper had to leave suddenly, and to -get another has been impossible. I wish I might make you comfortable. -I'd like to put Kenney under the pump for bringing you. Would you -rather I would take you to a neighbor?" he asked, brightening. - -"Oh, no; I like it--I shall like it,--here, in a few minutes," she said -with fervent kindliness. - -"Don't get us any supper; Mr. Kenney was only joking," he added as he -disappeared. - -It was rather a cruel kind of a joke, she thought, as Daisy sped down -the road; she would run away and walk home, seven miles, if she -dared. But Roger would be hurt; he had brought her for the drive, and -had no idea of the dismalness of the desolate old place. - -She threw off hat and gloves, and braced herself for action of some -kind. Roger would expect supper. It was not difficult to find the -kitchen; there was no fire, a fire could hardly be expected; there -appeared to be nothing in the room but piles and piles of dirty -dishes. There were kindlings in a basket near the stove, and wood in -the box behind the stove; there was a sink and a pump; with fire and -water she could wash dishes. - -If Marion had only come, too, what fun it would have been. It would -be rather desolate fun all alone. - -She discovered soap in a dish on the sink, and towels, clean towels, -hanging on a heavy cord behind the stove. The room, like the study, -was flooded with the afternoon sunshine. And there were pictures out -of the window; she had never yet found a window that did not frame a -picture. She could not be lonely with pictures and sunshine. - -In five minutes the wood fire was crackling; the sunshine and the -fire were two companions she loved, and then, Marion often laughed at -her enthusiasm for washing dishes. For once in her life, she would -tell Marion, she had dishes enough to wash. - -If she might only heat the oven and make biscuits. That would be a -surprise. With a feeling that she was intruding she opened a closet -door; a loaf of bread, a plate of butter, a paper of soda crackers, a -small basket of eggs, a tin quart of milk, a bag of salt was the -quick inventory she made--then she found a bag of flour on the floor, -a basket of potatoes, a ham from which slices had been cut, and a jug -of molasses. Hot biscuits, ham and eggs, coffee, there must be -coffee; what a splendid supper she might have. There were no remains -of a dinner; perhaps he had forgotten to get any dinner, or he might -have been invited out; he should have one supper--if there were only -time. - -Roger told her once that she had the feet and fingers of a fairy; she -said to herself that she needed them that afternoon. - -At that very moment when feet and fingers were busy in his kitchen, -how her young enthusiasm would have been kindled could she have heard -the story he was telling Roger. - -"It has been a tug for me, something to go through with. You do not -know unless you have had something of the sort happen to you. It may -end in my going away. She is everything to be desired, and more than -I deserve. A splendid looking girl, a college graduate, just the wife -for a minister, keen as a flash, quick at repartee, as spicy as a -magazine article, born to command, a perfect lady, with a winning -manner, and I can't love her if it kills me. I've been down on my -knees begging the Lord to make me love her: and she is no more to me -than a picture, or a statue, or a character in a book. It unmans me -to feel how her heart has gone out to me. She is as brave about it as -she can be." - -"How, in the name of wonder, do you know it then?" asked Roger, in -astonishment. - -"I know it because I cannot help knowing it. If you do not know how I -know it I cannot tell you. Her mother knows it, and how she watches -me. They say Frederick Robertson married in a like way; he was afraid -he had been dishonorable. But this is none of my doing." - -"I can believe that, old fellow." - -"What am I to do?" - -"Steer clear of her." - -"All my steering will not keep me clear of her. We are constantly -brought together." - -"Introduce me. You will be nowhere." - -Richard King would not laugh; the very telling his trouble appeared -treason in his eyes. - -"I know what is the matter," ejaculated Roger, suddenly. "You have -seen some other woman, or you would succumb." - -"I have seen several other women," he said, thinking only of one,--the -girl with a blind mother in Bensalem. - -"Don't let it drive you away from your work." - -"I think she may go away. I think her mother will send her away. I -think I would rather face the cannon's mouth than be left alone half -an hour with that old lady." - -"Does she blame you?" - -"Not if she has the common sense I think she has. I am the last man -for a girl to fall in love with," he added, ruefully. - -"Don't count too much on that," advised Roger, gravely. - -At six o'clock Daisy was driven around to the stable to be fed; -Judith was taking her molasses cake from the oven and heeded neither -voices nor footsteps. - -"I told you so," cried Roger, delighted, coming to the kitchen -doorway. "See here, King, and look here, and _smell_ here." - -"Well, I think so," exclaimed the bachelor housekeeper in dismay and -delight. - -"Table set, too," declared Roger, stepping into the tiny dining-room. -"No table-cloth; how is that, Judith?" - -"I couldn't look around for things," said Judith, flushing; "I was -afraid every minute of intruding. I haven't looked into places any -more than I could help." - -"Miss Judith, I am ashamed--" - -"You are grateful, you lucky dog," interrupted Roger. "We are as -hungry as tramps, Judith; our host stopped at the store and bought -sugar cakes and cheese to treat us on, not knowing the feast he was -bringing his guest home to." - -Biscuits, molasses cake, ham and eggs and coffee. - -Judith's eyes were demure and satisfied; she had never had such a -good time in her life. - -"I can get you a table-cloth if it will not be too much trouble to -reset the table," proposed the host as unembarrassed as his visitors -could desire. - -"Please don't," said Judith, "unless for your own convenience." - -"I acknowledge I haven't seen a table-cloth on my own table since I -have been my own housekeeper: but we must have napkins. I cannot do -without napkins unless I am camping out." - -Judith was placed at the head of the table, she accepted the position -as naturally as she did at the Bensalem parsonage when she was left -to be the lady of the house; she poured the delicious coffee, ate her -biscuits with a perfect relish, and listened to story, repartee, -experiences, plans for work with an appreciation that added zest to -the conversation. - -"Well, Judith, what do you think of your afternoon?" inquired Roger, -when Daisy was trotting the second mile toward home. - -"I never had anything like it. I didn't mind washing the supper -dishes with you looking on; but I _did_ mind having him in the -kitchen." - -"He couldn't stay out; it was nuts for him. He's a first-rate camper, -but housekeeping is one too many for him. He is one too many for -himself. He wishes to be near the church, so he will not try to find -board anywhere." - -"Hasn't he a sister, or cousin, or somebody?" - -"He hasn't anybody. He wants to bring a family to the parsonage--he -might have had one for the summer if he had known he would lose his -housekeeper in time. He will make a break and do something. What do -you think of him?" - -"If I hadn't seen that dreadful study, and that kitchen--" - -"Did you go up stairs?" - -"Why, _no_. Did you think I would do that? I felt myself an intruder -every minute. You didn't think I _would_ do that, Roger." - -"Well, no; now I come to think of it." - -"If I had met him away--but he is so much a part of that kitchen and -study, that I'm afraid I shall not be fair to him. At first he was -nothing but big, to me; big and ashamed; then nothing but red beard -and eyebrows, and then eyes; his voice is as big as he is. I liked -his sermon that other time you exchanged; he is a man in earnest." - -"A man burning with enthusiasm! He came to Meadow Centre--his parish -covers three miles in two directions,--only because he was needed -there. He refused twice the salary, a pitiful little salary it is, -that he might try to bring that church back,--to keep it from being -swallowed up; his father was born there--he has a love for the church -and people; we passed a deserted church on the way here, a mile ahead -of us; Meadow Centre will be another deserted church before many -years--there are deserted farms in this neighborhood." - -"But the people will find a church somewhere." - -"There's a new church where we went this afternoon; it is taking his -people, his grandfather's people." - -"I should think it would. The church is out of repair--there's nothing -pretty about it. I don't believe he _can_ keep the people together." - -"Then he will help them scatter. He will do something for them. He -wanted this experience, and he could afford to take it." - -"Did you promise to exchange Sunday?" - -"Yes. I will drive home after evening service. He will stay over -night with us. I wish we might keep him a week. He took me to see a -place for a new church. He is a born organizer--" - -"Outside of the kitchen," laughed Judith. - -"I wish he had a wife," said Roger. - -"Not for such a reason--to keep house for him," replied Judith, in a -flash of indignation. - -"His grandfather and father were born in Scotland--on his mother's -side he has Scotch grit. He'll pull himself through, but it's rather -tough on him. He makes me feel like a pampered baby. He worked his -way through college; he has fed on thistles and he shows it. I wish I -had," said Roger devoutly. - -"Is it too late?" asked Judith teasingly. - -"I feel so small beside him," Roger went on discontentedly; "he is -the biggest and best fellow I know." - -"Roger, Roger, you tell me not to seek hard things for myself." - -Roger lapsed into silence. Judith wondered if she might not put her -afternoon into her next story. Sometime what a pretty book she would -make out of her short stories. She would call it: "A Child's -Outlook." But that would be too grown up for children. Her stories -were _for_ children, as well as about children. Marion had planned a -summer of writing for her; she had the "plots" for five stories in -her head; she had told them all to Marion as she used to tell her -mother pictures; they were, all of them, founded on her own childish -experiences; her childhood had been full of things--Marion said her -own childhood had not been so full. Every day when she was a child -had been a story. Telling her mother pictures had helped make her -stories. She used to tell her mother stories about herself. - -"You are too young to look back to your childhood," Roger had once -told her; "that comes with age." - -"Mother made it so real--she impressed me with its happenings. She -made things happen, I understand now, because she was going away so -soon. She used to say, 'I want you to look back and remember this.' -And I read aloud to her the journal she asked me to keep the last -three years--I draw upon that now." - -A summer of stories. She laughed aloud in her joy. She wished she -might take her book of stories to Heaven to show to her mother. - - - - -XXI. MARION'S AFTERNOON. - - - "Only the present is thy part and fee, - And happy thou, - If, though thou didst not beat thy future brow - Thou couldst well see - What present things required of thee." - - --George Herbert. - -More than anything else in the world Marion wished to be alone that -afternoon. If it were possible she wished to understand herself. She -closed the study blinds, and, in the dim light drew Roger's study -chair to the table; and, sitting down, bent forward, leaning her head -on the table. - -What did she wish to understand? She wished to know if the years had -burnt out that impulse of friendship, or love, she had, then, toward -Roger's friend, and her own friend; she was as light-hearted to-day, -but for the shame of it, as if she had never known him so pleasantly -and familiarly; her excitement over the letter was--what was it? - -If he should enter now she would be startled; she would be startled -because of that shame, because of those words that had spoken the -truth to him; she had read his letters to Judith week after week all -these years; they were delightful letters, he put himself into them; -Judith had written him that she always showed them to her; she did -not often read the letters Judith wrote to him. - -If she knew that he were coming back to--but, why should he? He had -not cared beyond friendliness then; there was no reason that he -should care beyond friendliness to-day. She _was_ just the same; not -any prettier, not any more attractive; she was only a busy worker in -her brother's small parish. Girls always had lovers, she supposed; -before she had a thought of it David Prince asked her to marry him, -and she refused instantly with no thought but surprise; there had -been no one else; she was twenty-one when she thought she cared for -Don Mackenzie, she was twenty-six now; an impulsive girl then, a -self-possessed woman now; that had been a golden experience; if there -were any gold in her it had been tried in that fire. - -He was her girlish ideal; he was not her woman's ideal. Perhaps she -was disappointed in him. - -"Marion, Marion," called a voice in the hall; a voice Marion loved; -Aunt Affy's voice. - -"O, Aunt Affy," springing toward the figure in the gray dress and -pretty gray bonnet, "how _did_ you know I wanted you more than I ever -did in my life?" - -"I was sent, may be," was the simple reply. - -"I am sure you were," said Marion, drawing her into the study and -seating her on the lounge. "Now give me your bonnet." - -"But, I can't stay a minute," Aunt Affy protested; "Cephas had to -come to the blacksmith's, and he brought me. Rody hasn't been so well -all day, and I hate to leave her. I came to see the minister." - -"The minister's sister will have to do this time." - -"I'm afraid she won't. Rody has something on her mind; I thought -perhaps he would come to see her and find out. She looks queer at me -and will not speak. Mrs. Evans is staying with her. She hasn't worked -too hard this summer; she couldn't; I've done a good deal, and we've -had one of the Draper girls come in two days every week. I know it -isn't _that_; it's her mind. But I'll stay content till Cephas comes -for me. Now, what is, deary?" - -"It isn't anything; only I wanted to hear you talk." - -"Bless the child," ejaculated Aunt Affy; "I never talked in my life." - -"No, you never do; you only breathe out your spirit and your -experiences; they find words for themselves; I truly believe you have -nothing to do with the words; they _come_." - -Aunt Affy laughed; she thought so herself. - -"Did you ever want to do anything different from your life? Were you -always as satisfied as you are now?" asked Marion, taking Aunt Affy's -hard-working hand into her own pretty fingers. - -Then Aunt Affy laughed again. What a tumult her far-away girlhood had -been. Did girls now-a-days think so much and have such confusing -thoughts and times? - -"I had a longing to do a certain kind of work--very practical; and the -only relief was praying to be satisfied with the having and doing it. -That was a very holy state of mind, you think. I used to think so, -too. Would it have been a holy state of mind if I had run next door -to see my bosom friend and talked to her continually about it? My -praying was simply to unburden myself. I had no bosom friend to talk -to; if I had I might have told her about it instead of praying about -it. And being devout I talked to God about it, instead of falling -into reverie as one less devout would have done. I am not confident -all my praying was prayer," she answered, shaking her head with its -two long white curls. - -"Yes," said Marion, who had felt this dimly about her own praying. - -"But it held this inestimable blessing--it moved me to study about -prayer, as no other experience would have done. And then, as the -years went on, the comfort of what I found to believe was so -satisfying that I forgot, for the while, the certain thing I was -longing for. And then as it was not granted, I began to think the -longing had been kept alive and craving that I might be kept alive -and craving about prayer. God's way of answering is as well worth -studying as our way of asking." - -"I should think it might be worth more," said Marion. - -"I am glad to hear you say that. Some too introspective people regard -more their way of asking--and in that way wander about in the dark -while his way of answering is light about them." - -"But then," Marion said, argumentatively, "don't you see that unless -your prayer were granted what you were learning would not be true; -that is, if the promises are to be taken literally and exactly." - -"I do not always know about 'literally and exactly.' That depends -upon just where we are. A child's faith may need 'literally and -exactly.' You and I may be growing into--not a less confident, but a -more intelligent faith." - -"Let me read you something. Dr. Parkhurst says--" Marion opened the -volume and read:--"'The longings of the human spirit have their own -particular beatitude, and, better than any other interpreters, make -clear the meaning of the Holy Word.'" - -"Read it again," said Aunt Affy. "I've been all through that." - -Marion read it again, very clearly, then laid aside the book. - -"But how do you know if you do give up?" she asked, feeling her own -will strong within her. - -"There is a great deal in your question. To give up heartily and -thoroughly is a rare thing to do. It is more than giving up praying -about it. It is even more than giving up wishing for it. It is giving -up the place in your heart, the plan in your life that held it; it is -so giving up that you can put something else in its stead. It is -filling that place so full that the old desire can never get back -into it again. And it is doing it of your own free will. It is like -what the people might have done by taking God back again as King, and -refusing to have Saul. They had the opportunity to do it." - -"Aunt Affy, _how_ have you learned to be so sure about things? You -remind me of another thing Dr. Parkhurst says: 'A Christian has more -than the natural resources of thought and action.'" - -"So we have. I knew nothing but that God cared for me. And I was -eager, impetuous, impatient, wilful, eager for him to walk my way, in -the way I should tell him about. It was years and years before his -Word became to me the delight, the plain command, warning, rebuke, -comfort, it is to-day. But I studied night and day with my longing -heart; and he blessed every natural longing; he took not one away; he -took each into his keeping and blessed it." - -"Does it take years?" faltered Marion. "I want to learn something -to-day." - -"You may learn something to-day; you cannot learn all to-day. -Yesterday I opened my Bible to a passage dated thirty years ago; I -remember the night I marked it; I was staggered, dismayed at -something that had happened to me, something that I thought God would -never let happen. I read through tears; I was comforted although the -words meant little to me; I was comforted as a child is comforted, -snug in its mother's arms, when the mother does not speak one word. -Yesterday, being in a strait again, I read these same marked words; -again they were dull and dry; I asked God to tell me what he meant." - -"Thirty years ago did you ask him to tell you?" - -"No, I did not think of that. I thought I would be comforted some -other way. I had not grown up to the understanding of to-day. You -know there's a _natural_ growing up to understanding God's words. It -took the happenings of these thirty years to make me understand; God -worked through them. He makes us grow through the sunshine and rain -of his happenings. God has to wait for our slow growing. (And I wish -to impress upon you just here, that unless you read and remember and -understand the Bible stories you cannot expect to find the lessons -for your own life. Superficial reading will not bring out the points; -one of his ways of teaching is through the natural method of your own -study and memory.) - -"'Therefore they inquired of the Lord further.' That further helped -me through a hard time. The story is this: God had chosen a king for -his people, told Samuel all about it, and sent him to pour the -anointing oil upon his head and to kiss him; and now when Samuel -called the people together at Mizpeh, and caused all the tribes to -come near to choose a king for them, and the tribe of Benjamin was -taken, then the family in Benjamin, then Saul, the son of Kish, thus -confirming the Lord's choice and Samuel's mission in the anointing, -and then the most astounding thing happened. Saul, the chosen of the -Lord, the young man whom the Judge of Israel had anointed and kissed, -could not be found. What would you think if you believed that God had -bidden you do something, and had confirmed it in such a special, -satisfying, convincing manner, and then suddenly you could go no -further--it was all taken out of your hands. The prophet sought for -Saul and could not find him. Would you not be tempted to say--would -you not really say to yourself, and to the Lord, I have been -mistaken; I went ahead to do God's bidding in all the confidence of -my faith, and before all the people I am ashamed; it is proven that -God did not bid me, that my faith was presumptive, for the time has -come to go on, and I cannot go on--the work is not to be done. It -looks as if I had deceived myself; God has allowed me to believe -something that is not true. Could anything be more heart-breaking? -How could God treat you like that when you believed him so, and were -so in earnest? Would you have the heart to inquire further? They -asked if the man should yet come hither. Samuel had done all he -could. The Lord answered, telling them plainly where the man had -hidden himself. Oh, these hidden people, the Lord knows about. He is -in all their hiding places. Suppose Samuel had stopped, ashamed -before the people, angry, humiliated before the Lord. There had to be -this last trial of faith. At the last eager, sure moment God may have -a new test of faith for us. Is there a hiding place in one of your -last, sure moments? Do not fail before it. God's will is hidden away -in it." - -"Aunt Affy, you do not know what you have done for me," said Marion, -solemnly, "I have just been deciding something for myself. I was -forgetting that God might have a will about it; that there was any -_further_ in it." - -"And here comes Cephas," Aunt Affy replied, rising; "I know the -rattling of those chains--I came in the farm wagon because it was -easier than for him to hitch the horses to the carriage. I'm thankful -enough if I've been of any help to you," she added, touching Marion's -forehead with her sweet, old, happy lips. - -"Shall I send Roger as soon as he comes home?" - -"Yes, and Judith. Judith didn't come yesterday, and Rody kept asking -for her." - -"It may be late. They have gone to Meadow Centre." - -"No matter if it is midnight. Rody didn't sleep last night. She -talked in her sleep, and has been muttering all day; I wouldn't have -left her only I wanted to see the minister alone before he saw her." - -The chains of the farm wagon rattled into the lane. Marion, on the -piazza, watched the old lovers drive away. - - - - -XXII. AUNT AFFY'S EVENING. - - - "When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?" - - --_Job_ xxxiv. 29. - -"I don't want any supper," complained Aunt Rody, rising from the -supper table and staggering toward the sitting-room door. "I'm too -full to eat; too full of deceit; you are all deceiving me." - -"Now, Rody," protested Cephas, buttering his big slice of bread, with -a vigorous touch. - -"All, every one of you," she said with a wail, turning with a slow -effort to face the supper-table; "you have deceived me all your life, -and Affy has, and Joe, and Judith, and Doodles would if he knew how. -Perhaps he does in a dog's way, which isn't half so tremendous as the -human way." - -Joe burst into a laugh, which Aunt Affy's look instantly silenced. - -"Poor Rody," she sighed. - -In the twilight, after the dishes were done, the two old sisters sat -together on the piazza; Rody had insisted upon wiping the dishes, and -as she sat upright in her straight-backed chair, she rubbed her -fingers dry with the brown gingham apron she had forgotten to take -off. - -She rubbed her fingers with an unceasing motion, muttering to -herself. Affy looked off into the twilight, her hands still in her -lap. Joe went whistling up the road to the village; Cephas, in -meditative attitude, in his shirt-sleeves, with his straw hat pushed -to the back of his head, leaned over the gate. - -"All of you, all of you," mumbled the breaking voice, "from my youth -up." - -"Cephas thinks it would be a good thing to sell the milk to the -Dutchman that has bought the Elting farm," began Affy, watching the -effect of her words. "Four cents a quart. And we would be saved the -churning and washing all the milk things. If Joe goes away to learn a -trade we shall have nobody to churn. What do you think, Rody?" - -The drooping head lifted itself, the fingers with the gingham fold -were held with a loosening hand; sharply and shrilly Aunt Rody -replied: "That's always the way; you and Cephas are always putting -your heads together to cheat me out of something. Not a quart of that -milk shall go. Joe shall stay and churn. Mother never sold her milk -to a Dutchman for four cents a quart. What would we do for butter, -I'd like to know." - -"Buy it." - -"Buy it," she repeated, mockingly; "nobody on the Sparrow place ever -paid money for butter." - -"But Cephas thinks--," began Aunt Affy, patiently. - -"Tell Cephas to stop thinking," replied the weakly imperative voice. - -Twilight darkened into night; but Rody refused to go in and go to -bed; she was comfortable, she liked that chair, she liked the stars, -she could breathe better out here in the night air; she did not want -to go into her bedroom, somebody had struck her a blow in there. - -So they stayed, the air blew damp, Aunt Affy brought a shawl and -pinned it about the stooping shoulders; Cephas came and sat down on -the step of the piazza with his hat on his knee, giving uneasy -glances now and then at the muffled, still figure in the chair. - -"It's getting dark," suggested Affy, rising and standing before the -bent figure with its head turned stiffly to one side. - -"And damp--these nights are chilly for old bones," replied Cephas. - -"There's a light in the house," persuaded Affy, "and it's dark out -here." - -"And the bed is so comfortable," added Cephas; "guess I'll go in." - -He arose and went in. - -"I'm going, too," encouraged Affy. "Come, Rody, you may sleep in my -bed." - -"I won't sleep in my bed; are you sure there's nobody to strike me in -your room?" she questioned like a frightened child. - -"Nobody but me. Come, Rody," she urged, gently. - -Placing a hand on each arm of the chair, the old woman lifted herself -to her feet; then she felt out in the darkness for something to lean -on; Affy took her arm and led her in. The lamp was burning on the -round table where the _New York Observer_ was piled; Doodles slept on -his cushion on the lounge. - -"I'll sit here awhile," said Cephas, pulling his spectacle case from -his vest pocket. "I haven't read the paper to-night." - -"I'll sit here, too," said Rody, rousing herself to a decision. -"Somehow I don't want to go to bed. I don't believe it's nine o'clock -yet. I wish the clock would strike. I wish something would make a -noise." - -"It's a quarter of nine," replied Affy, lowering her sister slowly -down into her chair. "It will soon strike." - -"Take this thing off," commanded Rody, tugging at the shawl with her -weak right hand. "You bundle me up as if I was a baby." - -"There's a carriage coming," said Cephas, bending his head and half -shutting his eyes to listen; "he's come, Affy." - -"Who's come?" demanded Aunt Rody, in shrill tone. "Who comes at this -time of night?" - -"The minister; he was coming to bring Judith for an hour or two," -Cephas answered, reassuringly. "She didn't come yesterday. Don't you -want to see her?" - -"Just for a look; I don't want her to stay, I don't want anybody to -stay." - -Roger Kenney and Judith entered quietly; Judith shrank from the old -woman as she stood for an instant beside her chair. Roger drew a -chair nearer and took Aunt Rody's hand into his own. The nerveless -hand lay in his as if glad of the warmth and strength; as he talked, -Roger clasped and unclasped his hand over hers that she might feel -the motion and life of his fingers. - -"I'm glad to see you, Aunt Rody," he said in a voice which was a -tonic. - -"I'm glad to see you," she replied, with the flicker of a smile about -her lips. - -"'Let not your heart be troubled.'" - -"It _is_ troubled; it is full of trouble. It's Affy and Cephas; they -are deceiving me. They want to get married and deceive me more and -more." - -"Shall I tell you how we'll stop that?" asked Roger, bending -confidentially toward her. - -"Yes, do. Tell me quick." - -"Let me marry them, and then you will never think they are deceiving -you again. What is the reason they are deceiving you now?" - -"Because they think I stand between them; they think I've always -stood between them," she said, piteously; "but I never did. I was -seeking their good." - -"But don't you think you have sought their good long enough?" he -asked persuasively. - -"Yes; I've worn myself out for their good. I'm worn out now; they'll -have to do for themselves, after this." - -"Who will take care of Affy after you are gone?" - -"I don't know; I'm sure I don't know. She doesn't know how to take -care of herself." - -"But she was your little baby; you are sorry not to have her taken -care of." - -"Oh, yes, I'm sorry; I'm _very_ sorry." - -Affy dropped on the lounge beside Doodles, and was crying like a -child; Judith went to her and put both her strong young arms about -her and her warm cheek to hers. Cephas cleared his throat, then -busied himself burnishing his spectacles with a piece of old chamois. - -"Somebody must take care of her, Cephas knows how best," said the -minister with firmness, rubbing the cold, limp fingers. - -"Yes, Cephas knows how best," she quavered "Come here, Cephas, and -promise the minister you will always take care of Affy." - -"Go, Aunt Affy," said Judith, in her strong, young voice, "go and be -married while Aunt Rody knows it. She'll change her mind to-morrow--" - -"Oh, I can't, I can't," sobbed Aunt Affy, "with Rody so near dying, -how can I? It's too hurried and dreadful." - -"It's too beautiful," said Judith; "that is all she can do for you; -do let her do it, dear Aunt Affy." - -"Come, Affy," said Cephas solemnly, "the Lord's time has come." - -"Perhaps it has," sobbed Affy, trembling from head to foot, as Judith -led her across the room. - -Roger arose and stood before the old man and the old woman; her head -drooped so that one long curl rested on his shoulder. - -"I'd ought to have a coat on," said Cephas with an ashamed face; "it -isn't proper for a man to be married in his shirt-sleeves." - -"And let me fix up a little," coaxed Aunt Affy; "this is my old -muslin, all faded out." - -"Oh, don't spoil anything," Judith besought; "see how she is watching -you. Aunt Rody, don't you want Uncle Cephas to take care of Aunt -Affy?" - -"Yes, yes, oh, yes. Has he promised the minister?" she asked with -tremulous anxiety. - -"Listen, and you will hear him promise. Joe, come here," Roger called -to the step in the kitchen. - -Joe came to the threshold, threw off his hat, and stood amazed. - -"Aunt Rody, put their hands together," said Judith, taking Aunt -Rody's hands as the old bride and bridegroom stretched their hands -toward her. - -"Did I do it?" she asked, as she felt the touch of both hands. "Is it -done for always?" - -"Yes," said the minister, "you've done it. Now, listen to every word." - -"Has he promised to take care of Affy?" Rody asked, peering up into -Roger's face. - -"Yes, Rody, with all my heart and soul and strength," answered the -old man, with the light of communion Sunday in his face. - -The curl drooped lower on Cephas' shirt-sleeve; Judith stood near -Aunt Affy. - -The solemn, glad words were spoken, the prayer uttered, the -benediction given; Aunt Affy and Uncle Cephas were married. - -"Let me kiss you, Rody," said Affy, through her tears. - -"I kissed you when you were a baby," said Rody. "You were a nice -little baby. Mother said I must always think of you first." - -"Now, you will go to bed," said Affy. "It's after nine o'clock." - -"Not in my room. I'll go in your room. Don't you go away all night. -Keep the light burning, and don't you go." - -"No; I'll stay, Rody; we will take care of you always, Cephas and I." - -Judith stayed that night; Aunt Rody slept well, and arose in the -morning at her usual early hour. She made no allusion to the marriage -that day, nor as long as she lived. - - - - -XXIII. VOICES. - - - "The love for me once crucified, - Is not a love to leave my side, - But waiteth ever to divide - Each smallest care of mine." - -The three were in the study that Sunday afternoon that the Meadow -Centre minister exchanged with Roger Kenney; the minister, the -hostess, and the girl at boarding-school. The boarding-school girl -had a book in her lap with her finger between the leaves, listening. - -"Mr. King talks as though he had never had any one to talk to -before," Judith thought as she watched the two and listened. - -His conversation was filled with bits of information, with incident, -with a thought now and then, absorbingly interesting to a school-girl. - -Roger loved people better than he loved books; Judith had not -outgrown her books, and grown into loving people. The Meadow Centre -minister was a chapter in a most fascinating book; he was the hero of -a story; he was not a being of flesh and blood like Roger. She was -afraid every moment the book would shut and she would read no more of -his story; "to be continued" would end this chapter, and then she -might never see the end of the book. - -"'Conversation is not the road leading to the house,'" he quoted, -"'but a by-path where people walk with pleasure.'" - -"I think it leads to the house," replied Judith, quickly, "if people -are real and sincere. What _does_ lead to the house if conversation -does not?" - -"Deeds," suggested Marion. - -"But we can't do deeds every minute," persisted Judith; "how could we -do deeds sitting here this afternoon." - -"We have done them," said Mr. King; "we are resting in a by-path." - -"But we want to get to the house," insisted Judith. - -"Loitering by the way is pleasant; through the by-way we may learn -the way to the house." - -"Marion, that reminds me of Cousin Don," Judith said, suddenly; "we -know him only through by-ways." - -"Tell me about Cousin Don," said the minister, interestedly. - -Cousin Don was a story Judith loved to tell. - -"You expect to find him unchanged after all these years--the time in -his life when a man changes?" he inquired, astonished. "Is that the -way you understand human nature?" - -"Perhaps I do not understand human nature at all. But I have his -letters." - -"By-ways--they do not lead to the house," he replied. - -"But they can," said Judith, vexed. - -"Oh, yes, they _can_." - -"And I know they do; don't you, Marion?" - -"In this case, I hope so," Marion answered; "I don't see how people -can help being like their letters." - -"Or their letters like them?" corrected Judith. - -"Then how is it we are disappointed in people?" Mr. King questioned; -"is it only our lack of insight?" - -"People change," said Marion, with slow emphasis; "if we were with -them all the time we would see the little changes that lead the way -to the great changes. People are even disappointed in themselves; I -am." - -"So am I," he answered sincerely; "I fall below my own ideal often -enough; if anybody cared enough for me to be disappointed in me they -would have reason enough." - -"I don't believe they would," thought Judith. - -"Mr. King," Marion began doubtfully, "do not answer me if my question -is intrusive; but I would like to know how you read the Bible for -yourself." - -"That _is_ a coincidence," exclaimed Mr. King; "as I was driving -along this morning a question came to me that I never thought of -asking myself before: suppose someone asks you to-day how you study -the Bible _for yourself_, what will you say?" - -"How wonderful," both girls said in the same breath. - -"So I told myself what I would say. One of my ways when I am in -special need of a word from my heavenly Father is to ask him to give -it to me, and then I am sure to find it in my reading. Often I open -and find it; often and often I find it in the chapter that comes next -in my daily reading. Asking the Holy Spirit to open your eyes to see -his special word to you in that special need is the safest way and -the quickest for me. I am assured then that I shall learn that day's -lesson in that day's place. The truth I need most has never failed to -come." - -"That is a very simple way," Marion said. "As simple as a child -asking his mother for something she has promised. The only hindrance -is self-will." - -"Oh, dear, that hinders everything," sighed Judith, who was battling -with the suggestion from within herself that perhaps her -boarding-school days were over and she _ought_ to go back and help -nurse Aunt Rody. The aunts had been so kind to her mother when she -was a homeless little girl, and to herself when she was a homeless -little girl. She had kept it out of her prayers ever since she had -thought of it. If only she had not thought of it. Aunt Affy would -never ask her to give up her studies and her happy home to bury -herself with three old people. - -"Are you far enough along in life to know that?" asked Mr. King, -giving the girl of eighteen a glance of keen interest. - -"I think I was born knowing it," said Judith. "Do you know about -anybody who wanted to do right and had a will of his own--" - -"Oh, yes; they are plenty of us. Three of us in this room," he -laughed. - -"But I meant some one in the Bible, for then we can know certainly -what happened to him." - -"Yes, I find a king who leagued himself with another king to go to -war; but he was not satisfied that he was in the way of obedience, -and he said to the other king, 'Inquire, I pray thee, at the word of -the Lord to-day,' and the other king gathered four hundred men, his -own prophets, and inquired of them what he should do. With one voice -they said, 'Go up; for the Lord shall deliver it into the hands of -the king.' Four hundred answers to his prayer; the Lord's command -four hundred strong. But the king who believed in the true God had -not had his answer; it was the will of the true God he sought. He -said, 'Is there not here, besides, a prophet of the Lord that we -might inquire of him?' The answer was, 'There is yet one man by whom -we may inquire of the Lord.' If there is one way of knowing the -Lord's will, there is no excuse for us; we may know it. Four hundred -voices of self-will are no reason, and no excuse, for not knowing it. -This king who believed in God heard the one voice of God--and -disobeyed it. He joined himself in battle with the king who trusted -in the four hundred voices of his self-will. And the battle went -against him; God had told him so. He believed God afterward; so will -you and I if we disobey. He went to battle as though God had not -spoken." - -"Was he _killed_?" asked Judith, fearful some trouble might fall upon -her if she listened to the voice of self-will. - -"No, he cried out, and the Lord helped him, and moved his enemies to -depart from him. As he returned to his house in peace, a seer met -him, and said, 'For this thing wrath is upon thee from the Lord.'" - -"'For this thing,'" repeated Judith. "For inquiring of the Lord, -learning his will, and then believing the voice of the four hundred -who gave him his own way. Oh, dear, I wish those four hundred would -_never_ speak." - -"There is but one way to silence them; listen to God's voice above -them all." - -"But it is so _hard_," cried Judith, impetuously. - -"Do not choose the easy way of obedience. Choose God's way, and let -me tell you one of his secrets; _his way is always easier than we -think_." - -To hide the tears which would not be kept back Judith hastily left -the study; he did not know, nobody could know, what obedience would -cost her; life at the parsonage was so different; Roger and Marion -were _young_ with her, and Aunt Rody and Aunt Affy, and Uncle Cephas -were so _old_; they had lived their lives, and their days went on -with a long-drawn-out sameness; nothing ever happened to them, they -were not looking forward to anything, there would be no study, no new -books, no music, no getting near the loveliest things in the world; -it was barrenness and dreariness, it was like death; the parsonage -was hope, and youth, and love and life, with the best things yet to -come. "It will stifle me to go back; I shall die of homesickness, I -shall choke to death." - -Cousin Don had a right to her, he was her guardian cousin. Would he -not have a right to come and take her away? But her mother--what would -her mother choose for her to do? - -They had been so kind to her mother. - -"I will go and stay--a week," she resolved, tears rushing afresh; "but -I miss Marion when I stay one single night." - -At the supper-table she announced with reddened eyelids and a voice -that would not be steady that she thought she would go to Aunt Affy's -before evening service and stay over night; Uncle Cephas had told her -that morning that Aunt Affy was very tired. - -"Must you go?" asked Marion. "But I know they need you. Mrs. Evans -said they couldn't get any one, and Aunt Rody was in bed to-day." - -"Perhaps I'll find it easier than I think," said Judith. - -"As soon as they find a nurse you will come back," encouraged Marion. - -During the walk through the village and to the Sparrow place Judith's -courage all oozed away; she grew so faint-hearted that she thought -she was faint; she stopped for a glass of water at the well where the -lilies had come, and went upstairs a moment to talk to Nettie, still -helpless in her invalid chair. - -"The minister came to see me this afternoon," Nettie greeted her; "he -read and prayed and told me things. Has he told you anything?" - -"Yes, and I almost wish he had not. I _have_ to do right -things--whether I want to or not." - -"Are you doing one now? One new one. You look so." - -"I am on the way to it." - -"Where are you going?" - -"Literally and figuratively I am on the way to it. I am giving up -study and everything else to go and take care of Aunt Rody." - -"How splendid of you. I knew you would do something _real_ some day," -Nettie said with enthusiasm. "You haven't been my ideal for nothing. -Mother has kept telling me I might be disappointed in you; but I -_knew_ I never should." - -After that how could she feel faint-hearted? - -"O, Judith," said Aunt Affy, meeting her on the piazza, "how did you -know I couldn't do without you any longer? Joe has gone for the -doctor; Rody has had another spell." - -In her own little room that night the girl knelt on the strip of rag -carpet, and, with her head buried in the pink and white quilt, prayed -that the voices of her self-will might be lost in the voice of the -Holy Spirit. The coming back was even harder than she feared; Mr. -King had not told her God's truth when he said: "_His way is always -easier than we think_." - -The thought that she was bravely doing a hard thing did not brace her -to the bearing of it; she was not bearing it at all; she was living -through it. - -Roger had not once told her she was brave, Marion was not more than -usually sympathetic; the neighbors were taking her coming back as a -matter of course--something to be expected; they would have blamed her -if she had not come; Aunt Rody every day was less fretful toward her, -more satisfied with her nursing; Aunt Affy busy in kitchen and dairy, -with the new importance of her marriage, and being for the first time -mistress in her own house, seemed forgetful that the girl had come -from any brighter life, forgetful that she had ever left the old -place and its homespun ways, and, most discouraging of all, forgetful -that any other help in household or sick-room was desired or might be -had by searching and for money. For the first time in her life Aunt -Affy was selfish. In her own contentment she forgot, or did not think -it possible that the girl of eighteen could be discontented. - -Judith remembered that Harriet Hosmer had said she could be happy -anywhere with good health and a bit of marble. - -But suppose she had not had her bit of marble? - -These days were the history of her summer of stories. - -The doctor told them that Aunt Rody might be helpless in bed for -months; she might gain strength and sit in her chair again. He had -known such instances. That was in the first week; in the second week -he gave them no hope. - -The stricken old woman was alive; that was all she was to Judith: an -old woman who was not dead yet. - -Judith was pitiful; she loved her with a compassionate tenderness as -she would have loved any helpless, stricken thing; but she was hardly -"Aunt Rody" any longer. - -She was as helpless as a baby, with none of a baby's innocence, or -loveliness or lovingness; there was no hope for this gray-haired, -wrinkled mass of human flesh, but in casting off this veil of the -flesh, no hope but in death. It was as if death were alive before -Judith's eyes, and within touch of her hand. - -She had no memory of Aunt Rody as the others had, to give affection -to; there was only _this_. There was scarcely any memory for her -gratitude to cling to. - -There was one comfort left; she was not afraid of her now. - -If she had stayed with her, instead of being at home at the -parsonage, she might have grown up to love and understand her; -instead she had grown away from love and understanding. - -She dared not think of release coming through Aunt Rody's _death_. -That would be desiring her death. Desiring one's death in one's heart -was--. - -There was no hope but in Cousin Don. - - - - -XXIV. "I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU CARED." - - - "'What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?' I cried, - 'A hidden hope,' the voice replied." - - --Tennyson. - -"Judith, don't stay in this little close entry when all out-doors is -calling to you," said Aunt Affy. - -"But I thought she might stir and want something," replied Aunt -Rody's nurse; "she looks up so patient and pitiful when she wants -something." - -"My work is all done; I'll sit here; you are losing your color, -child. What will your Cousin Don say to me when he comes home to -claim you?" - -"He will not come home to do that," said Judith, rising reluctantly -to give Aunt Affy her low chair. "I have a foreboding that something -is happening to him. He never forgot me before." - -"Forebodings come out of tired head and feet and back. I am allowing -you to do too much. This is Saturday afternoon and your play time. -The baking is done, and now that we are rid of churning--what _would_ -poor Rody say to me for selling the milk and making no butter? I feel -that I am 'deceiving' her at every turn about the house. Run up -stairs and put on the blue muslin you look so cool in, and go out in -the hammock and forget the responsibility that takes away your -appetite and gives you big eyes. Dear child, death must come. It is -the voice of the Lord calling Rody. You know what George MacDonald -says: Death is only going to sleep when one is downright sleepy. Rody -_is_ downright sleepy. Think how she sleeps half the time, poor old -soul." - -"Do you think she is glad to be 'downright sleepy'?" - -"Aren't you, always, when your night comes?" - -"But, Aunt Affy, she hasn't been--she wasn't--I did not think she -cared." - -"Her light has almost gone out, sometimes, I do believe. But it's -there, burning. She has a spark of real faith that never went out. -She wasn't as loving in her ways as she was in her heart. Now, don't -stand another minute. I want you to go to church to-morrow, too. John -Kenney is out on the piazza waiting for you; he's come to the -parsonage to spend Sunday." - -In an instant Judith was all light and color. John Kenney was the kind -of a friend that no one else in the world was; as grave as the -minister himself, at times, as book loving, and yet as full of fun -and frolic as a boy; he was taller than Roger, and handsome; Roger -was fine, but he was not handsome; she had no fear or reverence for -John, he stood beside her, and walked beside her; they were boy and -girl together; John was nearly three years older; he would be -twenty-one in the winter. She stood still radiant. - -"You look rested enough now," remarked Aunt Affy. - -"I was not so tired, I was only blue; I was thinking about Don. John -has been away all summer; he has not been in Bensalem since my -birthday." - -"Did he come for that?" inquired Aunt Affy, keeping any suggestion -out of her voice. She would not put ideas into the child's head. - -"He said so. And to say good-bye to the parsonage. We agreed not to -write to each other while he was out west." - -"What for," questioned Aunt Affy, suspiciously. "Had you ever written -to each other before?" - -"No," laughed Judith, softly, "and we agreed not to begin." - -"What for?" asked Aunt Affy, again. - -"For fun, I think, as much as anything. I think we had no real -reason." - -"Two such reasonable creatures, too. Judith, you _had_ a reason or he -had. Why should the question come up?" Aunt Affy asked severely. - -"Oh, questions are always coming up. He asked me if I would write and -I refused." - -"And that's how you agreed together. What was _your_ reason?" - -"I think," began Judith slowly, "I was afraid Roger wouldn't like it. -Or Marion. Marion is particular about such things. I'm afraid she had -something to trouble her once--she never will tease anybody about -anybody, even." - -"Well, be off, and dress. I told John you would not be out for some -time." - -"I'll go in this dress. I haven't seen him for months." - -Whether the haste augured well or ill for John, Aunt Affy could not -decide; she went into Aunt Rody's bedroom, touched her forehead and -spoke to her. - -"Are you sleepy, Rody?" - -"Yes." - -"Would you like anything?" - -"No." - -Aunt Affy, with her mending for her husband and for Joe, kept watch -in the entry, lighted by the open back door, all the afternoon. - -After half an hour on the piazza, Judith gave John Aunt Affy's latest -magazine to amuse himself with, and went up to her small chamber, to -braid her tumbled hair and to array herself in the fresh, blue muslin. - -In the cracked glass over the old bureau she met the reflection of a -girl with joyful eyes and cheeks like pink roses. She knew that was -not the girl that had watched Aunt Rody in the entry. - -Her summer companion had come back; he was her vacation friend; -perhaps she had missed him; perhaps her loneliness had not all been -for her Cousin Don. He was still in her world; across the continent -had not been in her world. He had not sent her one message through -letters to Marion or Roger. She had not dared write to him. But he -was home again, just as grave, and just as bright, with no reproach -in his eyes, and he was planning to stay a week. He had come to talk -to Roger and decide his choice of business in life; his father wished -to take him into his own business, the jeweller's, either in the -factory or store, but he had no taste for making jewelry, or selling -it, he said; he would rather study; he was "not good enough" to be a -minister; he would like to study medicine. - -Judith made herself as fresh and pretty as girls love to be, -pondering the while John's choice of work in life. She would choose -for him to be like Roger, and do Roger's work, but if he did not -believe himself to be "called" like Roger, that would not be -acceptable work; was not healing a part of Christ's work; was not -John gentle, sympathetic, and in love with every human creature? He -had a copy of something of Drummond's in his pocket; he said Drummond -was making a man of him. The beginning of his manhood was in joining -a Boy's Brigade while he was away at boarding school up the Hudson. -When she came back to the piazza he said he would read to her -Drummond's address to a Boy's Brigade. - -He had grown more grave since he went away; he told her the weight of -what to do and what not to do was heavy upon him night and day. - -"And he has such laughing brown eyes," she said, almost aloud, to the -girl in blue muslin, reflected in the cracked mirror. - -"What are _you_ going to do?" he inquired as he pushed a piazza chair -near the hammock for her, and stretched himself in the hammock that -he might look up at her and watch her as he talked. - -"Must I do something?" - -"You are old enough to decide. Girls are always deciding. Martha and -Lou are forever taking up something new. They are not satisfied to be -housekeepers. How Marion has settled down since she came to Bensalem! -To be Roger's housekeeper and a deaconess in his church has come to -be her only ambition. Is that yours, too?" - -"Which?" she asked with serious lips and dancing eyes. - -"Both." - -"My Cousin Don thinks he has my future in his right hand. But I'm -afraid his right hand is finding business he likes better." - -"Tell me true, what do you wish most to do?" - -"If you cannot decide for yourself, how can you expect me to decide -for myself?" - -"I do know. I have decided. I am simply waiting for Roger's judgment -to confirm my choice. I want him to talk father over. Father wants -one of his sons in the business, and Maurice declares he will not go -in--he wants to be an architect. He has decided talent; as I have not, -but am only commonplace and a drudgery sort of a fellow; I may take -business instead of medicine to please father and help Maurice out. -Mother beseeches me to please father; she almost put it 'obey' my -father. What do _you_ advise me?" - -"O, John, is it like that? I thought there was nothing in the way but -your own choice." - -"There is not. Father will give a grudging consent. I think he gave -me my California trip to give me time to think--perhaps to think of -his wishes. He went into the business to please his father." - -"He has not regretted it." - -"Far from it. He congratulates himself. I know a fellow whose father -gave him a 'thrashing' to make him go to college; his grandfather had -given his father a 'thrashing' and made him go." - -"Did he go?" - -"The fellow I know? No; he ran away." - -"Do you want to run away?" - -"I ran away to Bensalem to ask Roger." - -"I think Roger will urge you to please your father." - -"Father was glad enough for Roger to study." - -"That was because of the choice of study." - -"I knew that. But my choice is no mean one." - -"I think a natural bent should be respected," reasoned Judith. - -"I don't know that I _have_ a natural bent. A great English physician -writes that he decided to study medicine when he was a boy because -his father's physician came to the house with a coat trimmed with -gold lace. He was after the gold lace." - -"What are _you_ after?" - -"Money, reputation--position--" - -"I don't believe it," she answered, earnestly. - -"Oh, I would like them thrown in," he laughed. - -"In the Boy's Brigade you didn't make them first." - -"What do you make first?" - -"Aunt Rody, just now." - -"What second, then?" - -"Talking to you, on the piazza." - -"Judith," catching her hands and holding them fast, "decide for me. -Shall I study medicine, or shall I please my father and mother?" - -"I cannot decide for you," she said, lightly, withdrawing her hands. - -"You don't care." - -"I do care." - -"Decide then." - -"I am not the one to decide." - -"You are; if I put the decision in your hands." - -"But I am only a girl." - -"That is why I ask you. Girls see clear. They do not love money, they -are not ambitious." - -"I do not love money. I may be ambitious." - -"How are you ambitious?" - -She flushed and would not reply. - -"About your stories? Do you expect to write?" - -"I expect to write. I cannot help it; it is _in_ me and will come -out. Nothing much, perhaps; only little things, but I love them." - -"I do not think medicine is 'in me' like that. I simply like a -profession better than the routine and drudgery of business." - -"That is not a great motive." - -"No; and that boy's gold lace wasn't; but he made a success." - -"Yes," was all Judith said. - -"You are displeased with me." - -"I am disappointed. I thought you _cared_." - -"I do; in a certain way." - -"But not in the best way." - -"Judith, I am not 'great' or 'best.'" - -"I thought you were; I want you to be." - -"That is a motive," he said, catching her hands again. "Judith, if -you will tell me you love me and will marry me, I will go home and -tell my father I will make gold rings and sell them to the end of my -days; but you must let me put one on your finger." - -"If you made it I'm afraid it wouldn't fit," she laughed, again -withdrawing her hands. - -"Will you, if it fits?" - -"I cannot tell until I try." - -"Don't play with me. It is neither 'great' nor 'best' for a girl to -do that." - -"You frighten me," she said, with a sound in her breath like a sob. - -"I beg your pardon." - -"I cannot promise. I do not want to promise. I never thought of it." - -"You think I am only a boy." - -"I am only a girl." - -"I did not just think of it. You think I am too sudden and impulsive. -I thought of you all the time I was gone. I have loved you ever since -I knew you. How can anybody help loving you? You meant Bensalem to me -more than Roger and Marion did. I have been afraid somebody would -guess. I was afraid somebody would keep you away from me. Judith, -don't you care for me, at all?" - -"Yes, John; but not like _that_. I couldn't promise that. I never -thought you cared like that." - -"How did you think I cared?" he asked, passionately; "in a -grandfatherly way like Roger?" - -"I do not know," she answered sadly; "you were so good to me, and I -liked you. I didn't think." - -"Will you think now?" he asked, gently. "Will you think and tell me?" - -"When?" - -"As soon as you know yourself. I will wait years and years." - -"Yes, I will tell you as soon as I know myself," she promised. - -"Then I will wait. You are worth waiting for." - -"John, ought I to tell Marion?" - -"No. Do not tell anybody. It is my secret. You haven't any secret. -Nobody need ever know, I will never be pitied." - -Judith pitied him then. - -"I am not bound in any way. I haven't promised, John." - -"No; you haven't," he said, touched by the sorrow in her face. "I am -sorry to trouble you so; but I had to say it. I came to Bensalem to -say it." - -"Are you sorry you came?" - -"No; I had to have it out. Perhaps it will make a man of me. -Something will have to. A man needs some kind of a fight." - -Judith thought that it was not only his "fight." - -"I am going home; I can't stay here. I'll tell Roger I decided not to -stay over Sunday. I don't care what he thinks. We talked till twelve -o'clock last night. I know what he thinks. I'll walk to Dunellen to -the train, I'd like to start and walk around the world." - -"John." Judith's eyes were filled with tears. - -"Don't feel like that," he answered, roughly; "it's bad enough for me -to feel for myself without feeling for you. I have always thought you -cared." - -"I _do_ care." - -"That's no way to care." - -He walked off, not turning for her low word of farewell. - -She would have kept him had she dared. - - - - -XXV. COUSIN DON. - - - "If we are ever in doubt what to do, it is a good rule to ask - ourselves what we shall wish on the morrow we had done." - - --Sir John Lubbuck. - -The first day of September, late in the afternoon, Judith stood over -the kitchen stove making beef-tea for Aunt Rody. The weekly letters -from Don had failed--failed for three weeks; but twice before in five -years had she missed a letter. At the step behind her she did not -raise her eyes; the beef-tea was ready to strain; at this moment she -had no interest in the world but that beef-tea. - -"Judith, are you ready for news?" asked Roger. - -"Good news?" she asked, forgetting her beef-tea and turning towards -him, radiant. - -"That depends upon how you take it." - -"I'll take it in the way to _make_ it good, then. I'm not ready for -anything unpleasant," she said, with a vain attempt to keep her lips -from quivering. - -"Then I'll tell you. Guess who is married. But you will never guess," -he replied with confident eagerness. - -"Some one in Bensalem?" - -"No." - -"Bensalem is all my world." - -"You forget somebody on the other side of the world." - -"Not Cousin Don," in the most startled surprise. - -"Cousin Don. It's a stroke of genius, or something. He never did -anything like other people. Just as he was on the point of starting -for home, he decided to stay and marry an English girl he found out -he was in love with; or found out she was in love with him; he seems -rather surprised himself. They were married the day he expected to -sail for home." - -"Then why didn't he come and bring her?" asked Judith as soon as she -could find her voice. - -"The English girl would rather stay in England, or on the Continent; -she has no fancy to live in America." - -"I'm afraid--he didn't want to," said Judith who could not believe -that Cousin Don had failed her. - -"He never did a thing he didn't want to in his life." - -"But he has not been quite fair to keep it from us; I did not think -he _could_ do such a thing." - -"He did not keep it all from me," Roger replied, seriously; "perhaps -I should have prepared you for it. He has been interested in her for -some time, visited her in England--whether he did not know his own -mind, or she did not know hers does not appear; but now they both -seem to be of the same mind. Judith, dear, it isn't such a dreadful -thing." - -"Not to you," said Judith. - -Now, he would never come and take her away. No one would ever take -her away. She did not belong to him any longer. - -"Judith," began Aunt Affy, hurriedly in the kitchen doorway. "Oh, you -_are_ fixing the beef-tea." - -She strained the beef-tea, salted it, poured it into a cup, and went -to Aunt Rody's entry bed-room as if she were in a dream, not -thinking, or feeling anything but that she was left alone in the -world, her Cousin Don had cast her off, he had broken his word to her -mother, he had not cared for her as if she were his little sister. He -did not even care to write and tell her that he was married and not -coming home. - -"Poor child," Aunt Affy was saying in the kitchen, "it will break her -heart." - -"It shall not break her heart," was the fierce answer. "I would -rather have told her he was dead than married--for her own sake. I -cannot understand his shameful neglect. No money has come for her for -six months--but she will never know that. His letter to me gives only -the news of his marriage--his first letter for a month--but he has -never written to me regularly as he has to her. It would be a -satisfaction to run over to England to have it out with him." - -"But he had a right to be married," said Aunt Affy, doubtfully. - -"I am not questioning that. He had no right to hurt this child so--she -has believed in him as if he were an angel sent out of Heaven for her -special protection." - -"He isn't the only angel," said Aunt Affy, composedly. "I have been -counting on him. That's why I have had no help--I didn't bestir myself -for I expected news of his coming every week. Mrs. Evans's sister, a -widow who goes out nursing, can come the middle of this month. I -didn't tell Judith. I thought she was happy in being a ministering -angel herself. And then she was going away so soon, if her Cousin Don -should come I wanted her here when he came." - -"You had better send for the nurse," said Roger, dryly. - -"I'll go after supper and see Mrs. Evans. I suppose you and Miss -Marion will want my little girl again." - -"We certainly shall," replied Roger with emphasis, "more than ever, -now." - -"But she mustn't be an expense to you," said Aunt Affy, with an -anxious frown. - -"Never you mind the expense. If I don't burn Don Mackenzie up in a -letter, it will be because there are no words hot enough. I wish I -could send him her face as she came to the understanding of my news. -It would rather mar his honeymoon. I've kept this news a week, and -now I had to come and blurt it out." - - - - -XXVI. AUNT AFFY'S FAITH AND JUDITH'S FOREIGN LETTER. - - - "If I could only surely know - That all these things that tire me so - Were noticed by my Lord." - -At the supper table Aunt Affy asked Judith if she would sit in the -entry near Aunt Rody's door and watch while she "ran out a minute to -see Mrs. Evans about something." - -With the instinct of the story-teller Judith remembered the little -girl who used to sit there and sew carpet-rags, and began to weave -herself into a story; the "The Child's Outlook" was not very hopeful, -she thought, but she gave the story a happy ending, just as she -herself expected to have a happy ending. She did not know why she had -to sit there and watch; there had been no change for days; perhaps -Aunt Affy wished her to sit and watch for Aunt Rody to die. The light -from a shaded lamp on a table at the foot of the bed, did not touch -the sleeping face--the sleeping face, or the dead face, and Judith's -eyes were turned away; she was watching without seeing. - -She was too miserable to open a book; she was too miserable to think; -she thought she was too miserable to pray. - -The tears came softly, softly and slowly; face and fingers were wet; -the only cry in her heart was "mother, mother." - -"Mother, I want you," she sobbed, "will not God let you come back a -_little_ while?" - -The doors were wide open all through the house; in the sitting-room -there were low voices, at first her dulled ears caught no articulate -word, then the voice of Mrs. Evans spoke clearly: she was saying -something about "faith." - -Perhaps, the listener thought penitently, she herself was weeping -because she had no faith. - -Now Aunt Affy was speaking; she loved to hear Aunt Affy talk. Mrs. -Evans must have come and hindered Aunt Affy in her call; perhaps they -both wished to talk about the same thing; but they were both talking -about faith. She wished Aunt Rody might hear; she was afraid Aunt -Rody was lying there uncomforted. She had never thought of Aunt Rody -as a "disciple." - -In Judith's thought Aunt Affy dwelt apart. - -If you called upon Mrs. Finch she would ask you to "step in" to the -kitchen where her work was going on; Mrs. Evans with conscious pride -would throw open to you the door of her prettily furnished parlor; -Agnes Trembly would take you into her sewing-room; a call upon the -minister meant the study; Marion's guests were made at home -everywhere within and without the parsonage; but Aunt Affy's visitor -was taken to her sanctuary, the place where she prayed to God and -worshipped, to the inmost chamber of her consecrated heart. Aunt Affy -kept nothing back; she gave herself. - -With lifted head, and intent eyes, there in the dark she listened to -Aunt Affy's impressive speaking: - -"Once, it was in June, I was in prayer-meeting, and I was -constrained--a pressure was upon me--to pray for more faith. I must -have more faith. Not aware that I was in special need through trial -or temptation, I hesitated. Could I ask for what I did not feel the -need of? But only for an instant, the constraint was strong, and so -sweet (the very touch of the Holy Spirit), and in faith I asked for -more faith. Then I trembled. Might this sweet pressure not be a -prophecy of sorrow? Had I not just this experience, and a few days -later brought the tidings of the sudden death of one very dear to me? -I had the asked-for faith then, and it bore me through. Was this -constraint the comfort coming beforehand? To take God's will as he -would have me take it, I must needs have this faith. It was not too -hard before; could I not trust him again? - -"Before the week was over, unexpected happiness was given me. Ah, I -thought, this is what the faith is for! For we cannot take happiness -and make him glorious in it, but for this faith. God knows we need -faith to bear prosperity. So for days the happiness and faith went on -together, and then, don't be afraid, dear heart, and then came, but -not with the shock of suddenness, the great strain, when heart and -flesh must have failed but for the faith the Holy Spirit constrained -me to ask. The prayer was in June--all August was the answer." - -"Affy Sparrow, you make me afraid," was Mrs. Evans's quick, almost -indignant answer. - -"If you will only think you will not be afraid." - -Judith listening, was not afraid. Never since her mother went away -and left her alone with Aunt Affy had she felt the need of faith, of -_holding on_ to her heavenly Father, as she did to-night. - -"At one time," Aunt Affy went on with her fervent, glad faith, "I was -moved to cry out: 'O, Lord, do not leave me, I shall fall, I cannot -keep myself, there is nothing to keep myself _in_ me.' I awoke that -night again and again with the same cry in my heart, the same agony -on my lips. 'How _can_ he leave me?' I asked myself over and over. -'It is not like him; especially when I have begged him to stay.' Was -I in the shadow of a temptation that was to come? The next day the -temptation came; for one overpowering instant I was left to wonder if -he _had_ left me; then I knew that he was perfect truth as well as -perfect love; I said: 'Lord, I am very simple, be simple with me.' -Then the wave rolled over me, not touching me. I was tempted--tempted -to unbelief; but _was_ I tempted? Did the temptation come near enough -for that? I could only say over and over, _Lord, I believe in thee_. -My temptation came and he did not leave me." - -"Affy, you are supernatural. You have supernatural experiences," -replied Mrs. Evans in a tone of awe, and considerable displeasure. - -"You and I do not know what other people in Bensalem are going -through," was the gentle remonstrance. - -"I hope not through such terrible things as that." - -"I hoped I was helping you," said Aunt Affy, grieved. - -"That doesn't help. It doesn't help _me_. I'd be afraid to pray for -faith if I knew it was to prepare me for trouble." - -"Would you rather be unprepared for trouble?" was the quiet question. - -"I'd rather the trouble wouldn't come." - -"Then you would rather God wouldn't have his way with you." - -"I don't like _that_ way, I confess, but I have to have trouble like -everybody else. You have had as little of it--the worst kind I mean, -as anybody ever had--your troubles have been spiritual troubles, and -you are having your own way now about everything." - -"Yes, too much. I'm afraid every day of being a selfish, careless -woman. A dozen times a day I wonder what Rody would say to me if she -only knew what we are doing; selling the milk for instance. Sometimes -I stop in the middle of something as if her hand were on my shoulder. -Your sister can come next week, then?" - -"As far as I know; she'll be ten times better help than Judith; she's -strong and used to sickness. She can _lift_ Rody, and that's what you -want. I thought the parsonage folks had spoilt Judith for you by -making her too much of a lady." - -"Judith is not spoiled," was the quiet rejoinder. - -"You will find my sister Sarah ready for any emergency. What do you -think she's been doing to get into the paper? She sent me the paper -with the thing marked in it. I wish I had brought the paper; I'll -show it to you some time. You know she lives, when she's at home, -near a tunnel; well that tunnel caved in one day just after a -passenger train had passed through; she knew there would be another -train soon, and she had her red petticoat ready and ran out as it -came thundering on, and swung it in the air until she stopped the -train--and just within a few feet of the tunnel, too. Wasn't that -pluck?" - -"Where's Judith?" called Joe's voice. "I have a letter for her; one -of the foreign letters she used to be so raving glad to get." - -In the half light Judith sprang toward the letter. There was no light -in the sitting-room; on the kitchen table a lamp was burning; she was -glad to read it unquestioned. Snatching at its meaning she ran -through the three thin sheets; then she read it deliberately, -understandingly. - -He had written to tell her of his marriage, and two weeks afterward, -on his wedding tour, found the unmailed letter in his pocket. That -letter he had destroyed, and, after a week to plan and decide what to -propose to her, had written again--was writing again now, in fact. The -shortest way to her forgiveness he believed to be to ask her to come -to England, not to be his housekeeper, but to be his wife's dear -little friend and cousin, as well as his own. But, if she decided not -to do that, and the plan did have its disadvantages (he had not yet -asked his wife's advice or consent), would she be happy to stay on at -the parsonage, or at Aunt Affy's just as usual? He would never forget -her, she would always be his dearest little cousin in the world, and -he knew she and Florence would be the best of friends if they could -know each other. Florence had a prejudice against America, but that -would wear off. He very much regretted he had never written about -Florence, but she was something of a flirt and had never allowed him -to be sure of her until she knew he had taken passage for America. He -hoped she would write to Florence and then they would understand each -other better. She must be sure to write to _him_ by return mail. He -hoped the delayed letter had not made her uncomfortable. He was -always her devoted Cousin Don. - -Mrs. Evans went home, passing through the kitchen; Aunt Affy had told -her of the unexpected marriage of Judith's cousin; she was curious to -catch a glimpse of the girl's face over his letter. It would be -something to tell Nettie. With her usual thoughtfulness Aunt Affy -asked no question concerning the letter. That night Judith could not -bring herself to show the letter; the next morning she gave it to her -to read, and then asked if she might be spared to go to the parsonage. - -"Yes, dear child. And stay all day if you like. I'll do for Rody. She -will not ask for you. She called me Becky in the night. It's the -first time she has not recognized me. And when Mrs. Evans's sister, -Mrs. Treadwell comes, you may go and have a long rest and study -again." - -"I don't deserve that," said Judith, breaking into sobs; "I haven't -been good, and I don't deserve anything." - -"No matter, you'll get it just the same," said Aunt Affy, patting her -shoulder with a loving touch. "And, after _this_, you are to come to -me for money--you are to be my own child; my little girl, and Cephas' -little girl." - -With her head on Aunt Affy's shoulder Judith laughed and cried; she -even began to feel glad of something--not that Don was married, or -that she was not to be his housekeeper, or that she was not to be -Aunt Rody's nurse; it was almost wrong to be glad when she should be -disappointed; then she knew she was glad because no one in all the -world had the right to take her away from the parsonage. - -The way of obedience _had_ been easier than she thought. She stayed -that day with Aunt Rody, doing little last things for her, and -telling Aunt Affy ways of nursing that pleased Aunt Rody that she had -discovered for herself. - -"She will miss you," Aunt Affy said that evening, as Judith came into -the sitting-room dressed for her walk. Doodles was snoring upon his -cushion on the lounge; Uncle Cephas, at the round table, was lost in -the day's paper; Joe, at another table, was reading a book he had -found under rubbish in the storeroom: this last year he had developed -a taste for books. - -The girl lingered, with her satchel in her hand; the dear old home -was a hard place to leave; without the cloud of Aunt Rody's presence -it was peace and sunshine. - -Aunt Affy, with her pretty, gray head, her light step, her words of -comfort and courage, moved about like a benediction; Uncle Cephas, -rough and kindly, with strength in reserve for every emergency, gave, -to the house the headship it had always lacked; Joe, to-night, was -fine and sturdy, and growing into somebody; would they miss her? - -Was the girl going away any real part of the strength and beauty of -the old Sparrow place? - -She was going because she chose to go. - -Joe had asked her if she were "going for good." Was to-night another -turning-point? - -If she stayed would her life to come be any different? - -In anybody's eyes was there a difference between belonging to the -parsonage and belonging to the Sparrow place? - -No one was taking her away, she was going of her own free will. - -With a sudden impulse she dropped her satchel in Aunt Rody's empty -chair and ran up the kitchen stairs to stay a few moments alone in -the chamber her mother used to have when she was a little girl. - - - - -XXVII. HIS VERY BEST. - - - "Lord, teach us to pray." - - --_Luke_ xi. 1. - - "O Thou, by whom we come to God, - The Life, the Truth, the Way! - The path of prayer Thyself hast trod; - Lord, teach me to pray." - -Judith stood on the parsonage piazza; a voice within was unfamiliar, -then in a change of tone she recognized something and was reminded of -her afternoon at Meadow Centre; that laugh she had heard before, it -was not Don--it was--the face at the window looked out into the -shadows,--it was Richard King. He was a strong tower; he was safe, -like her parsonage life; she would go in and feel at home. No new -face or voice would ever come between and keep her away. Across the -room, as she discovered by a peep through the curtains, Marion sat -with some of her usual pretty work in her hand; Roger was not there. - -"In the excavations in Babylon," Mr. King went on in easy -continuation of the subject in hand, "a collection of bowls was -found, inscribed with adjurations of all sorts of spirits by name, -and with indications that could not be mistaken of medicines they -once held. You know, that capital R with which the physician heads -his prescription, believing it stands for Recipe, in the days of -superstition was understood to be an appeal to Jupiter." - -"That was consistent," Marion replied, still bending over her work. - -"Imagine our physicians writing at the head of a prescription: _In -the name of Jesus Christ_." - -"As Peter did when he healed the lame man." - -"Our old Meadow Brook physician prays with his patients very often; I -tell him he leaves nothing for the parson to do." - -"Roger says sometimes the doctor has a way of getting nearer our -Bensalem people than he has." - -"I am not sure of that. They tell the doctor a different kind of -trouble. You would be amazed--if you were not the minister's sister--at -the histories people tell me about themselves, and their neighbors." - -"I am always delighted that people have a story to tell. When I first -came to Bensalem I thought no man, woman, or child, lived a life -worth living. Now I know the sweetest stories. Aunt Affy is one, and -Nettie Evans, and even her hard-featured mother brims over once in a -while with an experience." - -The coming back from Babylon to Bensalem brought Judith to the -consciousness that she might be considered an eavesdropper; at that -instant Roger entered in his shirt-sleeves, remarking: "Let's be -informal, like Wordsworth. He used to take out his teeth evenings -when he did not expect callers." - -"But you _have_ a caller," remonstrated Marion, when the laughter -ceased. - -"Yes, and here's another one," Roger replied, as Judith walked softly -in. "Judith, must I put on my coat? I've been potting plants for -Marion and I couldn't afford to soil my coat." - -"Yes," said Judith, who was always on Marion's side in influencing -the Bensalem minister to remember the claims of society. - -"I wish you had stayed at home. What are you looking so full of news -about?" - -"I have come back--to stay. No one else in the world wants me." - -"And we don't," declared Roger. - -Something in the gleam of the eyes under Richard King's tangled -eyebrows was a revelation to Marion. She knew his secret. She would -keep it. Roger was stupid, he would never guess. But how could she -keep it from Judith? Poor little Judith, was she growing up to have a -love story? To-night Marion did not like love stories. - -She wished the tall girl with the serious eyes and braided hair were -a little girl with long curls. - -"Did _you_ get a letter from Don to-night?" Roger asked. - -"Yes." - -"How do you like it?" - -"I--think I like it. It will not make any difference to me--only the -difference that it hasn't made." - -"A good distinction," remarked Richard King. - -"May I go upstairs, Marion?" - -"Surely--your room has been waiting for you as the Holy Land waited -for the Israelites to return from their captivity; nobody spoiled -either, or occupied either." - -"Mine was not seventy years," said Judith, "although sometimes it -seemed like it." - -Marion did not follow her; it would not be an easy thing to talk to -Judith about Don's marriage; she was relieved that the only view the -girl would take of it would be in regard to the difference it made to -herself. - -When Judith returned, feeling as much at home as though she had been -away but for a night, Marion was matching silks for her work, and the -gentlemen were talking, sitting opposite each other in the bay window. - -It had been so long since she had heard Roger talk; that "talk" was -one of the delights of her parsonage life. She had heard him preach -but once during her stay at Aunt Affy's. - -"That point about praying came up," Mr. King was saying, "and I am -not satisfied with the answer I gave. The man gave his experience--it -was an experience of years--and then he asked me what was the matter -with his prayer, and I decidedly did not know. I know he has -fulfilled the conditions, praying in faith, and in the name of -Christ, and the thing prayed for was innocent in itself. He said, -'What _is_ the matter with me?' and I could not tell. He went away -unsatisfied. I went down on my knees, you may be sure, thinking -something was the matter with _me_ because I had no illumination for -him." - -Roger's strong, brown hand was stretched along the arm of his chair; -he looked down at his fingers in deep thought. - -"He said he had been praying months to learn if the petition in -itself were not acceptable to God, and had, he thought, studied a -hundred prayers in the Bible, comparing his prayer with the -acceptable and unacceptable prayers of the old saints." - -"He is determined to get at the bottom of it," said Roger. - -"I never saw a man more determined. I quoted Phillips Brooks to him: -'You have not got your answer, but you have got God.'" - -"He was not satisfied with that getting?" - -"No. He said he knew he should not be satisfied until he had God's -answer to himself. I think he has almost lost sight of the thing he -was anxious for when he began to pray. It has been worth a course in -theology to him." - -Marion dropped her silks; Judith was listening with all the eagerness -of her childhood. She felt sure Aunt Affy could explain the -difficulty. - -"The thing that strikes me," began Roger, "is that he may be like -those men sent to the house of God to inquire about fasting." - -"Well?" questioned Richard King. - -"These men went to pray before the Lord and to ask a question. Their -question was about fasting; but fasting has to do with praying--your -friend has certainly been in a weeping and fasting spirit. They -asked: Should I weep in the fifth month separating myself, as I have -done these so many years? - -"The Lord's answer came through the prophet Zechariah. He understood -all about that so many years separating themselves and fasting. He -told them the fasting was not so much to him as for them to hear the -words which the Lord hath cried by the former prophets. They might -better study his revealed will than seek to find a new answer to this -question of fasting. The fasting in itself was all right if they -wished to fast. 'When ye fasted did ye do it to me?' he asked. 'When -ye did eat and when ye did drink, did ye not eat for yourselves, and -drink for yourselves?' In feasting and fasting they had been selfish. -Then he gives them plain words of command, like the plain words the -former prophets had spoken. Obedience was better than fasting; better -even than coming to him to inquire about fasting. There is a parallel -in the history of one of Joshua's prayers. He could not understand -why the people should flee before their enemies. Then he rent his -clothes and fell to the earth, the elders, also, all day, with dust -on their heads; praying and fasting. - -"But the Lord's answer was: 'Get thee up; wherefore liest thou thus -upon thy face?' - -"Tell your old man praying and fasting are good, but sometimes God -has enough of them. He prefers obedience. The conditions of the -covenant had been violated by disobedience in both instances. Praying -in faith, and in the name of Christ, are but two conditions; hearing -and obeying is a third condition. Your man may be in the midst of a -very interesting experience, but I would advise him to stop -questioning the Lord, and try what a little obedience would do." - -"But, he's a _good_ man, Roger," urged Judith, "only a good man could -bear a trial like that." - -"Good men have favorite little ways of disobedience, sometimes; God's -own remedy is more obedience." - -"I wish we could know all about it--the rest of the story, and, if he -ever has his prayer," said Marion, to whom "people" were becoming a -real and live interest. - -"Joshua had his prayer. The story of Ai is the story of how God -answers prayer when he has made way for it; it shows his disciplinary -government; it places obedience before all things; obedience makes -God's answers to prayer a natural proceeding." - -"I'm afraid I have depended too much on prayer," Judith answered, -troubled. - -"Oh, no," Mr. King reassured her, "only you have not depended enough -on obedience. I will call upon my old man to-morrow and tell him -these two stories of disciplinary government." - -"You are not going home, to-night, old fellow," urged Roger, "the -girls will give us some music. We four will make a fine quartette." - -"Miss Judith, did you know I have a housekeeper?" he asked, turning -brightly to Judith. - -"I am very glad." - -"So are we all of us," declared Roger. - -"A man and his wife I have taken in. She's a good cook; the house is -a different affair; I wish you would come and see. The man gets work -among the farmers and takes care of my horse, which I used to do -myself. They are both grateful for a home and I am very happy to be -set in a family." - -Judith fell asleep thinking of Aunt Rody's beef-tea, and wondering if -Aunt Affy would remember to keep the water bag at her poor, cold feet. - -It was luxury to be at home again; to be at home and in the way of -obedience. That was God's will on earth as it was in Heaven. - -The next day the gentlemen went fishing and Marion and Judith kept -the long day to themselves. In the afternoon Marion and Nettie had -their weekly history talk, and, Judith shut herself up in the study -and wrote a story about a girl who learned a new lesson in the way of -obedience. The story was from a child's standpoint; in writing for -children she was keeping her heart as fresh as the heart of a little -child. - -"Judith," said Roger that evening as the "quartette" were together in -the study, "I have a thought of work for you; you smell work from -afar as the warhorse scents the battle; how would you like to write -up the childhood of a dozen famous women? The study itself will be -delightful, and the writing more so. Call the series: '_When I was a -Girl_.'" - -"I would _like_ it," was the unhesitating reply, "if I can do it." - -"You can do it. You can do anything you like." - -"Then I will," she decided, thus encouraged. - -"But the books?" said Richard King, ready to place his own -bookshelves at her service. - -"Oh, the books are easily found. There's our school library, and the -Public Library in Dunellen, and everybody's house to ransack in -Bensalem. Besides, my own library is no mean affair. Books and -fishing are my laziness and luxury. No hurried work, Judith, -remember. You shall not read the first one of the series to me until -a month from to-day." - -"Are you such a slow worker yourself?" Roger's friend inquired. - -"I am a plodder. And I believe in other people plodding. I believe -that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. I have sermons -laid away to mellow that I've been six months on." - -"But you do other writing and studying in the mean time," said Judith. - -"Oh, yes, while the seed is sprouting." - -"Kenney, you are planning something." - -"Yes, I am planning to salt down a barrel of sermons before I take a -new charge." - -"Mellowing, salting, sprouting," laughed Judith. - -"Roger, a new charge!" exclaimed Marion, startled. - -"A new charge, my dear sister. I am too small for Bensalem, they need -a bigger man here." - -"But, Roger," remonstrated Judith, with big, distressed eyes; "will -you not give dear, little Bensalem your best?" - -"My very best," he answered, solemnly. - - - - -XXVIII. A NEW ANXIETY. - - - "Our eyes see all around, in gloom or glow, - Hues of their own fresh borrowed from the heart." - - --Keble. - -It was chilly that evening in the old rooms of the house with three -windows in the roof; Roger Kenney's father and mother sat near the -grate in the front parlor; curtains and portieres were dropped, the -piano lamp with its crimson silk shade threw a glow over the two -faces sitting in cosy content opposite each other. The house was -still; the girls, Martha and Lou, and the two boys, Maurice and John, -had gone down town to an illustrated lecture on India; the maid had -her evening out; even Nip, the house-dog, had gone out for an evening -ramble; the two "old people," as in their early sixties they loved to -call each other, were alone with each other and a new anxiety. - -Mr. Kenney told his wife that nothing in the world made her quite so -happy as a new worry, and he wished he could get one for her oftener. - -"This will do for awhile," she remarked; "but this isn't as bad as -that old trouble of Marion's; a man can work himself out; and Roger -has work enough on hand for two worries." - -"Now, what are you going to do about this?" inquired her husband, -folding the evening's paper and laying it upon his knee. "You sent -Marion to Bensalem for her charm; will you get Roger away for his?" - -"That would do no good," she replied, discontentedly, "he would not -be got away in the first place, and Judith is not a fixture in -Bensalem." - -"Judith is worth having," was the complacent reply. - -"That's the worst of it. So was Don Mackenzie." - -"It's the best of it, I think. You wouldn't have your boys and girls -carried away by somebody not worth having." - -"But, then, being disappointed in somebody might help them bear it, -and turn them around to look at somebody else." - -"A disappointment like that is poor consolation." - -"I don't suppose the disappointment _is_ the consolation. The -somebody else is." - -"You never had the consolation of the somebody else." - -"I have only had the consolation of you," she retorted. - -"Marion has never taken up with anybody," he said, reflectively. - -"She has had no chance--" - -"That you know," he interrupted. - -"--That I know," she accepted meekly, "excepting David Prince." - -"She wouldn't look at him." - -"No, she wouldn't. He was younger in the first place--and so different -from Don." - -"I'd like to see that English beauty Don has married." - -"How do you know she is a beauty?" asked Marion's mother, with a -touch of jealousy. - -"Oh, he wrote that to Roger in his first young admiration. An orphan, -living with an uncle, years younger, a capricious beauty, with a -little money; wasn't that the description?" - -"Something like it. Marion has carried herself well about this -marriage." - -"Why shouldn't she? She had nothing to carry herself about." - -"You don't know girls. A memory is a memory." - -"How do _you_ know?" he laughed. - -"But this is not helping us out about Roger," she remarked, ignoring -his words and laugh. - -"Roger will help himself out; he isn't his father's son for nothing." - -"As Marion was not her mother's girl for nothing," was the demure -reply. - -"How do you know--how can you be so certain sure that he wants Judith?" - -"She is the very light of his eyes. She has been for years. A mother -can see. The thought of her is always about him." - -"Does Marion see it?" Roger's father inquired, convinced. He had a -thorough respect for his wife's judgment. - -"No; that's the queer part of it. I think Roger is guarded with her. -He never had a secret from his mother." - -"Young men never have," the young man's father threw in. - -"But I know Roger; I wouldn't be afraid to ask him." - -"Then, why don't you?" - -"Because I know without asking," she silenced him. - -"Now, to come back to the starting point--what do you intend to do -about it?" - -"Bring Judith here," she replied impressively. - -"That's a fine move; an effectual separation." - -"If I could send her anywhere else he would think it his duty to go -and see her, he would have to know how she was doing--pay her bills, -and so forth. There's no one else to be a father to her. Mrs. Brush -leaves everything with him. She has no knowledge of any world outside -of that village." - -"Perhaps she is trying to catch him for Judith." - -"Such a worldly thought would never enter her dear, pretty, simple, -shrewd head. She has her catch, and she didn't catch him with guile. -She would rather keep Judith than set her on the throne of England. -_That's_ out of the question." - -"Well, I do see that point about bringing her here. He can see her -naturally here; nothing to thwart him; she's such a girl, no older -than Martha--you never have any scares about Martha." - -"Martha has never been thrown so with anybody, I wouldn't allow it. I -try to be always on the safe side?" - -"You didn't seem to be on Judith's safe side." - -"I couldn't. Nobody asked me. There she was studying at the -parsonage, before I knew it." - -"She was only a child then." - -"And I thought it such a good outlet for Marion--it was one of the -first things that roused her--that and her Outing Society. My only -fear was that she was taking Judith up for the sake of her Cousin -Don. His influence somehow seems to run through everything. But I -know better now. Judith won her own way. But I didn't know I was -sacrificing Roger to Marion." - -"How could you have hindered?" - -"I could have brought Marion home," she answered, decidedly. - -"And spoiled the good Bensalem was doing for _her_." - -"Oh, dear," with a sigh, "how lives are tangled up." - -"And it's rather dangerous for our fingers to get into the tangle," -he suggested, with mild reproof. - -"But we must do something," she exclaimed, in despair. - -"Well, yes, I suppose so--when the time comes." - -"Well, the time has come now." - -"I don't see anything the matter with Roger. He can walk ten miles on -a stretch, he rides horseback, he cuts his own kindling wood and -makes his own garden, he gives his people two strong sermons a week, -beside the prayer meeting and weekly lectures; he goes hunting with -one of his deacons and talks farming with another; he neglects -nobody, and works like a drum-major. He isn't hurt." - -"But he _will_ be. Judith will refuse him." - -"How do you know that?" - -"Because she has never thought of such a thing." - -"I grant that. Why should she? But she _will_ think of it when he -suggests it." - -"She will not think of it as he does. He is an old fellow to her; let -me see; she was thirteen when she went to Bensalem, and he was--how -queer for me to forget--he was twenty-six, just twice her age." - -"He isn't twice her age now," observed Mr. Kenney, comically. - -"And a woman is always older than a man," Mrs. Kenney, reflected. -"She is nearer his age then, I think, childish as she is. With her -hair up she does look older; it's those blue eyes like a baby, and -that complexion. I told Roger she might sit for a picture of -Priscilla the Puritan maiden, in her new-fashioned, old-fashioned -dress, and he said he had thought of it himself. But, now, Roger," -with a deprecating little appeal, "it will do no _harm_ to bring her -here." - -"Not the least bit in the world," he consented, cheerfully. - - - - -XXIX. JUDITH'S "FUTURE." - - - "God never loved me in so sweet a way before: - 'Tis he alone who can such blessings send: - And when his love would new expression find, - He brought thee to me, and he said, 'Behold--a friend.'" - -Exactly a month from the day Roger planned the Girl Papers for her, -Judith knocked at the study door with her manuscript in her hand. She -had written three papers; if he took sufficient interest in the first -she would read the others. - -Beside the education for herself she had another thought in writing -them; she would send them to some child's paper and earn money. She -knew that Marion had never depended upon the parsonage for money; -every month her father sent her a check; she had no father to send -her a check. No money had come to her from her Cousin Don since his -hurried marriage. Probably he considered her old enough to earn money -for herself. It would be hard to tell Aunt Affy when she needed a -dress, or shoes, or money, when she was not doing anything for Aunt -Affy's comfort. - -Last Sunday she had no money for Sunday-school or church; she had no -money for anything. - -Her last story had been refused, and how she had cried over the -refusal. It was even hard to laugh when Roger told her that Queen -Victoria had sent an article to a paper under a "pen-name" and it had -been "returned with thanks." She wished she were a dressmaker like -Agnes Trembly, or that she could go into a farmer's kitchen, like -Jean Draper's sister Lottie, and earn money and not be ashamed. - -"Come in," called Roger from among his books. - -Her eyes were suspiciously red, she was relieved that his back was -toward her; he wheeled around in his chair as she seated herself, and -looked as though he had nothing in the world to do but listen to her. - -"Have you leisure to hear my Girl Papers?" she asked, with some -embarrassment. "They are horrid. I tried an essay, and failed. It was -stilted and stupid. I can make girls talk, so I threw my garnered -information into a conversation. But you may not care for this style." - -"I can bear anything," he said, making a comical effort at -self-control. - -After the first was read, with an inward quaking, she was delighted -with his word of encouragement: - -"Read the others; I cannot know how bad they are until you read them -all." - -More hopefully she began the second paper, which she read in a clear, -conversational tone:-- - -"Do you know," began grandmother, "who said that she could be happy -anywhere with good health and a bit of marble?" - -And then we were all astir with eager interest. - -"Rosa Bonheur was 'happy anywhere' with canvas, colors, and brush; -and this girl loved marble just as well, and brought breathing life -out of the cold marble, as Rosa brought it out on her canvas. But -Harriet was an American child, born into a luxurious home, with no -brothers or sisters, and her mother soon died and left her alone with -her father. Her mother died with consumption, and her father had -buried his other child besides Harriet with the same disease, so no -wonder he was afraid for his little girl, and determined to give her -a playful childhood in air and sunshine. Harriet Hosmer was born in -Watertown, Mass., October 9th, 1830." - -"And now she's older than you are, grandmother," said Bess. "I like -to know about when grandmothers were little girls." - -"But she and Rosa Bonheur are not grandmothers. They have had canvas -and marble instead of a home with children and grandchildren in it. -As soon as little Harriet was old enough a pet dog was given to her, -and she ornamented it with ribbons and bells. Instead of tin cup and -iron spoon, which Rosa had, she revelled in all the pretty things -that children love. The River Charles ran past her home; her father -gave her a boat and told her to take her air and sunshine on the -water and learn to develop her muscles by the oars. And then he had -built for her a Venetian gondola with velvet cushions and silver prow. - -"'She will be spoiled,' the neighbors foreboded, but her wise father -was not afraid; he knew how much happiness his child could bear and -not be rendered selfish. The next thing to help her become strong was -a gun; she soon became what your brothers would call a good shot. By -and by you will know how strong her hands and arms became and what -she could do with them. All this time, just as you are, girls, these -common days, she was being made ready for her own special work." - -Juliet grew radiant. She was hoping for "special work." - -"Her room was a museum. Gathered and prepared by her own eager and -wise hands she had beetles, snakes, bats, birds, stuffed or preserved -in spirits. From the egg of a sea gull and the body of a kingfisher -she made an ink-stand; she climbed to the top of a tree for a crow's -nest. Miles and miles she learned to walk without being wearied. In -her work and habits and strength she was like a boy. She was fond of -books, but just as fond of the clay-pit in her garden where, to her -father's delight as well as her own, she molded dogs and horses. - -"When Harriet Hosmer was taken to a famous school (at home they -called her 'happy Hatty') the teacher said: 'I have a reputation for -training wild colts; I will try this one.' She stayed three years. On -her return home she began to take lessons in drawing, modeling, and -in anatomical studies, often walking fourteen miles to Boston and -back, with hours of work and study. Was not that a day's work? She -went to the Medical College of St. Louis to take a thorough course in -anatomy." - -"You have to know things to get things out of marble," remarked Ethel. - -"Grandmother, how hard girls can work!" exclaimed Nan, who did not -love work. - -"After she had finished her studies she traveled alone to New -Orleans, and then north to the Falls of St. Anthony, smoking the pipe -of peace with the chief of the Dakota Indians, explored lead mines in -Dubuque, and scaled a high mountain to which her name was afterward -given." - -"That was fun," said Nan. "I'm glad she had some fun with her hard -work." - -"After work in her studio at home her father sent her to Rome. Girl -as she was, in her studio at home she wielded for eight or ten hours -a day a leaden mallet weighing four pounds and a half. And it was -then she told a friend that she would not be homesick, for she could -be happy anywhere with good health and a bit of marble. For seven -years she worked on her 'bit of marble' in Rome. She made beautiful -and wonderful things with her good health and her marble, with hard -work, and the insight into beauty that God, who makes all beautiful -things, gave to this ready and obedient child. - -"The first work she copied for her teacher was the Venus of Milo; -when almost completed the iron, which held the clay firm, snapped, -and all her work was spoiled." - -"Oh!" sighed Ethel. - -"But she did not shriek nor cry herself to sleep (that anybody knew), -but bravely went to work again. Her works were exhibited in Boston -and much admired. Her teacher said he had never seen surpassed her -genius of imitating the roundness and softness of flesh. Look at -other marble statues and see if the flesh looks soft and round like -Harriet's. One of her works, a girl lying asleep, was exhibited in -London and in several American cities. She said once she would work -as though she had to earn her daily bread, and, strange to tell, very -soon after that her father wrote that he had lost his property and -could send her no more money. And then she hired a cheap room, sold -her handsome saddle-horse, and went to work in reality to earn her -daily bread. Her first work, in her time of sorrow, was a fun-loving, -four-year-old child. With the several copies she made from it she -earned for her daily bread thirty thousand dollars." - -"And oh! grandmother," I said (for I am a poor girl myself), "when -our heavenly Father has work for us to do, it doesn't matter whether -we are born poor or rich." - -"Either way it takes hard work," said grandmother. - -With a shy glance into his satisfied face she opened her third paper:-- - -"Children have more need of models than of critics," said -grandmother, "therefore I will give you another model to-night. You -will think I am always choosing for you stories of girls that work; -but where can I find models of any other kind? What do girls amount -to who think only of their own pleasure, and never persevere to the -successful end? Now I will tell you about a girl who came in -womanhood to live in an observatory. This is her home. She is a dear -old lady with white hair, dressed in gray or brown, in rather -Quakerish fashion. She said to the girls she teaches: 'All the -clothing I have on cost but seventeen dollars.' In this unusual home -(she is not a grandmother, either), she keeps the things she loves -best,--her books, her pictures, her astronomical clock, and a bust of -Mary Somerville, of whom I will tell you some time." - -"And then we will remember that her bust is in somebody's observatory -home," said Bess. - -"It is not a wonder that Maria Mitchell has great respect for girls -who do something, and for idle girls none at all. As Juliet was at -Nantucket last summer she will be interested to know that Maria -Mitchell was born in that quiet, delightful place. She was in a home -of ten children. Her mother was a Quaker girl, a descendant of -Benjamin Franklin. Her father was a school teacher. Little Maria went -to school to her father. At school she studied, and with ten little -people at home, what do you think she did? She herself calls her -work, 'endless washing of dishes.' The dishwashing never hindered. I -think it helped. I believe in dishwashing. I wonder what this little -girl would have thought of the dishwasher that some people have in -their kitchens, and is warranted to wash sixty-five dishes (in the -smaller affair) at once, in the soap-sudsy, steamy, crank-turning -space of three blessed minutes. And all dried, too. But in her -observatory she had no need to think of dishwashing. Like Rosa -Bonheur, and Harriet Hosmer, she had a good father and a wise father. -When he was eight years old his father called him to the door to look -at the planet Saturn, and from that time the boy calculated his age -from the position of the planet, year by year." - -"Then it began with her grandfather," said Juliet, who liked to find -the beginnings of things. - -"Her father had a little observatory of his own, on his own land, -that he might study the stars. So it is no marvel that his daughter -is ending her useful days in a big observatory. When Maria went to -her observatory, her father was seventy years of age; he needed her -as nurse and companion, but he said, 'Go, and I will go with you.'" - -"This is the loveliest story of all," exclaimed Grace, who loves her -own old father dearly. - -"For four years her father lived to be proud of her, and enjoyed her -work and her pupils at Vassar College. When Maria was a girl her -father could see no reason why she should not become as well educated -as his boys, so he gave her, as to them, a special drill in -navigation." - -"Grandmother," asked Ethel, "did you know all these little girls when -they were little?" - -"No, darling," said grandmother, "I found out about them in books. -And telling you about the girls is getting you ready to read about -them all the little things the world has a right to know. For they -belong to the whole world. Maria did not learn fancy work. I can -guess what she would say of some girls who care more for fancy -stitches than for studies. She has said, 'A woman might be learning -seven languages while she is learning fancy work.' Still, girls, -educate your fingers, and make your homes pretty and attractive. But -don't let stitches hinder the stars--God has his place for both." - -"Yes, the women worked pretty things for the Tabernacle," I said. -(For I love to make pretty things.) - -"But she did know how to knit, and she knit stockings a yard long for -her father as long as he lived. She studied while she knit, as I used -to do when I was a little girl. When she was a little girl how she -did read! Before she was ten years old she read through Rollin's -_Ancient History_. - -"One night in October, 1847, she was gazing through her telescope, -and what do you think she saw? An unknown comet. She was afraid it -was an old story. Frederick VI., King of Denmark, sixteen years -before, had offered a gold medal to the person who should discover a -telescopic comet. And the little Nantucket girl, who had knitted -stockings a yard long, and washed endless dishes, discovered the -telescopic comet, and to her was awarded the gold medal. And now the -scientific journals announced Miss Mitchell's comet. In England she -was eagerly welcomed by Sir John and Lady Herschel, and Alexander Von -Humboldt took her beside him on a sofa and talked to her about -everybody he knew and everything he knew. And, oh! the other great -people who were glad to see her. She saw in Rome Frederika Bremer, of -whose comical, interesting, sad girlhood I must tell you some day. -But I musn't forget the little house Maria bought for her father -before she went to the observatory of Vassar College. It cost sixteen -hundred and fifty dollars, and she saved the money out of her yearly -salary of one hundred dollars, and what she could earn in government -work." - -"I don't think I mind washing dishes so much now," declared Nan. - -And we all laughed. - -"Good," exclaimed Judith's listener. "Keep on with the dozen, and -salt them down. _When I Was a Boy_ series will be a good thing for -you. Judith, honest, now, would you rather go away to school this -winter, or read and write with Marion and me?" - -"Study with you," was the quick decision; "I can think of nothing in -the world I would like so well." - -"Then that is settled," he replied with satisfaction; "I feared you -would be restless. You are at the frisky and restless age. Marion was -sure you would not be." - -"But--" Judith hesitated and colored painfully, "if I am to teach by -and by, would it be better for me to go to school? I can borrow the -money and then earn it by teaching and repay Aunt Affy." - -"We are not making a teacher of you; we are making an educated woman--" - -"But, Roger," she persisted, "unless I go back to Aunt Affy I must -support myself. I am not willing to be dependent upon any one except -Aunt Affy." - -"Upon whom are you dependent now? Are you not earning your board by -being co-operative housekeeper?" - -"If you and Marion think so." - -"Ask Marion." - -"But I would like to ask you, too?" - -"I thought my little sister had more delicacy of feeling than to ask -such a question." - -"Roger, don't be a goose," she said, indignantly, "that was all very -well when I was a child. You forget that I am grown up." - -"You will not let me forget it." - -"I wish you not to forget it. In the spring, on my nineteenth -birthday, I shall decide upon my future. Just think, I have a -future," she laughed. "I am only too glad of the study and music this -winter. Then I shall go out into the world, or go back to Aunt Affy. -I do not mean to be too proud--" with a quiver of the lip. - -"Only just proud enough. You are exactly that. Let us live in peace -this winter, and then your nineteenth birthday may do its worst for -us all." - -"You will not be serious," she answered, with vexed tears; "my life -is a great deal to me." - -"It is a great deal to us all, dear. Work and be patient, and you -will have as happy an ending as any story you write." - -"My children end as children," she said, with a quick laugh. "I -shouldn't know what to do with them if they grew up." - -"There is One who does know what to do with his children when they -grow up," said Roger, bending as he stood beside her and touching her -lips with his own. It was the first time he had ever kissed her. She -took the kiss as gravely and simply as it was given. Something was -sealed between them. She would never be proud with him again. - -"I will not kiss you again," said Roger to himself, "until you -promise to be my wife." - -That afternoon Roger asked Marion to drive to Meadow Centre. - -"I am glad you did not ask Judith," replied Marion, with something in -her voice. - -"Why not?" he asked, indignantly, "why shouldn't I ask Judith to -drive with me?" - -"My point was not driving with you, but driving to Meadow Centre." - -"I confess I do not understand you." - -"I knew you didn't. Men are blind creatures." - -"Then open the eyes of one blind creature." - -"Haven't you seen that Mr. King is interested in Judith?" she asked, -somewhat impatiently. - -"We are all interested in Judith." - -"Not just as _he_ is. You are not," looking straight into his frank, -smiling eyes. - -"You don't mean--" - -"Yes, I do mean--" - -"What about _her_?" he asked with the color hot in his face. But -Marion was a "blind creature" then and did not see. - -"I don't know about her. She isn't grown up enough to think. But I -know he is wonderfully attractive to her." - -"He's a good fellow. I will not stand in his way." - -"For pity's sake, Roger, don't think you must do anything," cried -Marion, dismayed; "let her alone. He will take care of himself." - -"I shall certainly let her alone. He is so artless that he will be -taken care of. It is like him to stumble into the best thing in the -universe and then wonder how he ever got it." - -"I hope you don't call Meadow Centre one of the best things," -retorted Marion. - -"It's a good place for a man to make something of himself; he is -writing sermons that will make a stir somewhere. Meadow Centre is to -him what Paul's three years in Arabia were to him." - -"Then we must do our best to make Judith ready--" - -"What a plotter you are," he exclaimed, angrily; then, more quietly: -"But we will make Judith ready," and he walked off with a laugh that -was a mixture of things. - -This day, in which God's daily bread and his daily will were given to -Judith as upon all the other days, was one of the very happiest days -of her happy life. - -Roger's kiss gave her an undefined sense of safety and protection; if -she were not wise enough to decide when the time came she would take -refuge in that safety and protection, and--another kiss. - -That evening Joe came for her, saying Aunt Rody was worse. She went -home with him, and "watched" with Aunt Affy, until poor Aunt Rody -passed away from the home she had toiled so unceasingly for and taken -so little comfort in. One week she stayed with Aunt Affy: "I miss her -so," wept Aunt Affy broken-heartedly; "I never was in the world -without her before." - -"I suppose we musn't keep you, Judith," Uncle Cephas remarked one -evening behind his newspaper. - -"Not yet," said Judith. "I want to be as busy as a bee this winter to -get ready for something." - -"Then we will have to adopt Joe; we must have some young thing about -the house." - -Judith's first words to Roger and Marion as they went out to welcome -her on the piazza were in a burst: "I do think those two old people -growing old together is the loveliest thing I ever saw." - -"How young must two people begin to grow old together?" inquired -Roger, comically. - -"As soon as they think about growing old," said Marion. - -"Then I will not begin to think until my birthday," said Judith. -"Marion, I am too happy in having two homes. Some better girl than I -should have them." - -"You forget your third home in England," remarked Roger, seriously. - -"Oh, poor Don. Roger, I am afraid Don isn't happy," she said, with -slow emphasis. - -What Roger thought he did not say. - -Don's letters were brief, constrained; Judith's letter to her "new, -dear Cousin Florence" had met with no response--that Judith knew. - - - - -XXX. A TALK AND WHAT CAME OF IT. - - - "There is nothing which faith does not overcome; nothing - which it will not accept." - - --Bishop Huntington. - -"Roger," began Judith, doubtfully. - -"Begin again, I don't like that tone." - -"I was afraid you were thinking--" - -"I should be sorry not to be." - -"I was afraid you were thinking too deeply to be disturbed." - -"Then I shouldn't _be_ disturbed; my mind would be absent from my ear -and I should not hear that doubtful appeal. The _doubt_ is what I -object to." - -Marion and her mother had not returned from their drive to Meadow -Centre, where Mrs. Kenney had a school friend. They intended to -"spend an old-fashioned day," Mrs. Kenney remarked at the breakfast -table; it was five o'clock in the November afternoon and the -old-fashioned day was not yet ended. - -Judith and her fancy work, covers for Nettie's bureau, had taken -possession of the light in the bay window; as the light faded, she -sat thinking with her work in her lap. Roger entered and threw -himself upon the lounge, clasping his hands above his head; his -thinking was weaving itself in and out of a suggestion of his -mother's that she should take Judith home for the winter. - -To the suggestion he had replied nothing at all. - -"Then the doubt is gone," answered Judith, brightly. "I do not know -how to put my thought." - -"Isn't that rather a new experience?" - -"It is the experience of every day," she answered, unmindful of his -teasing. "I wonder why God keeps us so much in the dark." - -"Perhaps we keep ourselves in the dark." - -"That is what I wanted to know." - -"Can you tell me exactly what you mean? Are you in the dark about -anything?" - -"About everything," she exclaimed with such energy that his only -reply was a laugh. - -"Just now I mean one special thing that I cannot tell you about." - -"O, Judith, are you growing up to have secrets?" he groaned. - -"I am growing up _with_ secrets. Aunt Rody used to exasperate me by -telling me I would 'outgrow' something, when all the time I knew I -was growing into something." - -"Growing into a new thing is the best way to outgrow an old thing." - -"Then I am satisfied about something." - -Roger wished that he could be--about something. - -"I wish I could tell you. But I don't know why I shouldn't. I'm -afraid Marion doesn't care for Mr. King, and I want her to so much." - -In the twilight she could not see the illumination in the face across -the room on the lounge. - -He was satisfied about something. - -"What are you getting down into?" he asked jubilantly. - -"Why," pricking her work with her needle, "I think he--cares a great -deal, and he is so splendid that I want her to care. How they would -work together. Bensalem has been getting her ready." - -"Well, I declare!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. - -"Are you displeased?" - -"There's nothing to be displeased about. Is this the way girls plot -against each other? No wonder we men have to tread softly." - -"It isn't plotting exactly. It's only hoping." - -"Is that your secret?" - -"Yes, and don't you tell," she said, alarmed. - -"No; it shall be my secret; yours and mine. Now what are we going to -do about it?" - -"We cannot do anything. She admires him around the edges, somehow. -And he's as shy of her as he can be. I seem to be always interpreting -them to each other." - -He laughed, greatly amused. - -"In spite of my selecting the most innocent love-stories for you, you -have grown up to the depth, or height, of this. I'll never dare put a -finger in a girl's education again." - -"But, Roger--" - -"Don't ask me to help you out." - -"Marion will not. She doesn't seem to understand anything." - -"No wonder," thought Roger, remembering her early experience; "she -has been a burnt child; she'll never play with that kind of fire -again." - -Aloud he replied: "She needs a wise head like yours. What would you -advise her to do?" - -"To be _natural_; just her own self, and she isn't. I believe she's -afraid." - -"So will you be when you are as old as she is." - -"I don't know what to be afraid of." - -"May you never know. Is that all you are in the dark about?" he -questioned, seating himself in his study chair, and wheeling around -to face the girl in the bay window. - -A girl in blue, as she was when she sat in the bay window in Summer -Avenue and wrote letters to Aunt Affy; the same trustful eyes, loving -mouth, and yellow head. - -Now, as then, she did not know what to be afraid of. It was only this -last month that she had brought her questions to Roger. Marion had -not grown ahead of her to answer her. And Aunt Affy had been so -absorbed in Aunt Rody this last year that she had feared to trouble -her with questions. - -"I have a book-full of questions laid up for you; rather the answers -would be a book-full. Life seems full of questions. There's always -something to ask about everything I read." - -"Ask the next book." - -"The next book doesn't always know." - -"The next person may not always know." - -"I can easily find out," she laughed. - -Then she became grave, and, after a moment's silence, said: "I wish I -knew why we couldn't have _an idea_, as we pray a long time for -something, whether it were going to be given us or not." - -"Something that you have no special promise for?" - -"Yes; something in the 'what-so-ever.' It does seem so hard to have -it grow darker and harder, and not to know whether you may keep on or -not; whether giving up would be in faith--or despair." - -"Judith, you've touched a sensitive point in many a heart that keeps -on praying." - -"Do _you_ know?" she asked. - -"I can tell you a story." - -His story was all she desired. - -"You know when Jairus came to the Lord to plead for his daughter, he -fell at his feet and besought him greatly, saying: 'My little -daughter lieth at the point of death.' Then Jesus went with him. We -do not know what he said, but he went with him. Then, as they went -together, the crowd came to a stand-still that the Lord might perform -a miracle and answer the prayer of a touch. But, by this time, Jesus -had been so long on the way that news came of the death of the little -daughter. It was too late. She was dead. They said to the father: -'Why troublest thou the Master any further?' He might as well go home -to his dead child, the Master had not cared to hasten--this woman was -not at the point of death, she might have been healed another day. -But think of the comfort: _as soon as_ Jesus heard the message, he -said to the father: 'Be not afraid; only believe.' Is he not saying -that every hour to us who are fainting because he is so long on the -way?" - -"Yes," said Judith, "but he did not _say_ he would raise her from the -dead. Perhaps the ruler did not know he had power to raise from the -dead." - -"No; he only said: Be not afraid: only believe. Is not that assurance -enough for you?" - -"Now, don't think I am dreadfully wicked, but I know I am; I want him -to say: 'Be not afraid, I know she is dead, but I have power enough -for that; believe I can do _that_. He did not tell him _what_ to -believe." - -"He told him to believe in the sympathy and power that had just -healed this woman who had been incurable twelve years, all the years -his daughter had been living." - -"But," persisted Judith, "he might believe that, for he had just seen -it; but to raise from the dead was beyond everything he had seen, and -Christ gave him no promise for that." - -"Perhaps he believed that the Master had power in reserve--he surely -knew he was going to his house for something--he did not bid him -believe, and then turn back; he went on with him to his house." - -"Now you have said what I wanted. It was the _going on with him_ that -kept up his faith. As long as Jesus kept on going his way he couldn't -but believe. He gave him something even better than his word to -believe in. I shouldn't think he would be afraid of anything then." - -"Then don't you be afraid of anything. Not until the Master turns and -goes the other way." - -"He will never do that," Judith said to herself. - -The clock on the mantel struck the half hour: half-past five. Judith -rolled up her work and went out to the kitchen. The tea kettle was -singing on the range; everything was ready for the supper, biscuits -and cake of her own making, jelly and fruit that she and Marion had -put up together in the long summer days, to which she would add an -omelet and creamed potatoes, for Roger was always hungry after a -walk, and then coffee, for Mrs. Kenney would like coffee after her -drive. - -"I don't mind now if my prayers do get stopped in the middle," she -thought as she arranged the pretty cups and saucers on the supper -table, "if Jesus goes all the way with me--he will take care of the -rest of it, and next year--if something _dies_ this year, he can bring -it to life next year. If He wants to; _and I don't want Him to, if He -doesn't want to_." - -Roger came out into the kitchen to watch her as she moved about, and, -to his own surprise, found himself asking her the question he had -intended not to ask at all. - -"Would you like to go back home with mother for the winter? You may -have a music teacher, you have had none but Marion, and take lessons -in anything and everything. Mother would like it very much," he said, -noting the gladness and gratitude in her face; "Martha will take your -place here with Marion." - -"Oh, yes, I _would_ like it," she answered, doubtfully. "Did she -propose it?" - -"Yes." - -"You are sure you didn't suggest it, even," she questioned, still -doubtfully. - -"I am not unselfish enough for that," he answered, dryly. - -"But who would pay for it?" she questioned, with a flush of shame. -"No; I will not go--until I earn money myself." - -"A letter came last night from your Cousin Don--I really believe I -forgot to tell you--perhaps I was jealous of his right to spend money -for you. He asked me to decide what would be best for you, from my -knowledge of yourself, and said any amount would be forthcoming that -your plans needed. His heart is in his native land still. He will -never come home to stay as long as his wife"--"lives" in his thought -was instantly changed to "objects" upon his lips. - -"So you would really like to go back to city life?" - -"Yes," said Judith with slow decision. - -Why should she not go home with John Kenney's mother, she argued, as -she stood silent before Roger. He was studying medicine in New York; -he had written her once, only once, and then to tell her that he had -decided upon the medical course: "If I cannot have something else I -want I will have _this_. Life has got to have something for me." - -A week later Lottie Kindare had written one of her infrequent -letters; the burden of the letter seemed to be a twenty-mile drive -with John Kenney and an engagement to go to see pictures with him. - -"I have always liked John, you know--John with the crimson name." She -was glad of both letters; they both revealed something she had no -other way of learning. She had not hurt John beyond recovery, and -Lottie would have something she wished for most. - -"Don will be glad to take the responsibility of you. You give him -another reason for staying alive." - -"Hasn't he reasons enough--without me?" - -"He ought to have," was the serious reply. "Everybody should have, -excepting yourself." - -"Myself appears to be the chief reason to me." - -"Take as much time as you like to decide--and remember, you go of your -own free will." - -"Roger, you know it isn't that I choose to _go_--" she began, -earnestly. - -"Oh, no," he said, as he turned away, "not Caesar less, but Rome -more." - -He went into the study and shut the door. - -"The child, the child," he groaned, "she has no more thought of me -than--Uncle Cephas." - -When his mother and sister returned, and the supper bell rang, he -opened the door to say to Marion that he would have no supper, he had -work to do. - -"Yes," he thought grimly, "I _have_ work to do--to fight myself into -shape." - - - - -XXXI. ABOUT WOMEN. - - - "Like a blind spinner in the sun, - I tread my days; - I know that all the threads will run - Appointed ways; - I know each day will bring its task, - And, being blind, no more I ask." - - --H. H. - -"I wish you would tell Judith Mackenzie all you know about women's -doings," said Jean Draper Prince one morning late in November. - -"I am ready to give the Bensalem girls a lecture upon what women -outside of Bensalem are doing," said the lady in the bamboo rocker -with her knitting. "All the ambitious girls, all the discouraged -girls." - -The bamboo rocker was Jean's wedding present from Judith Mackenzie; -Jean had told Mrs. Lane that the broad blue ribbon bow tied upon it -was exactly the color of Judith's eyes. - -Mrs. Lane had not visited Bensalem since the summer she gave Jean -Draper the inspiration of her outing; but many letters had kept alive -her interest in the Bensalem girl, and kept growing the love and -admiration of the village girl for the lady who lived in the world -and knew all about it. - -Jean said her loveliest wedding present was the week Mrs. Lane came -to Bensalem to give to her. The loveliest wedding present was shared -with Judith Mackenzie. - -Jean's husband was the village blacksmith; his new, pretty house was -next door to his shop. It was not all paid for, and Jean was helping -to pay for it by saving all the money she could out of her -housekeeping. If she only might earn money, she sighed, but her -husband laughed at the idea, saying his two strong hands were to be -forever at her service. - -The small parlor was in its usual pretty order; in the sitting-room -were a flower stand, and a canary's cage; Mrs. Lane preferred the -sitting-room, but with her instinct that "company" should have the -best room, Jean had urged her into the parlor, drawing down the -shades a little that the sunlight should not fade the roses in the -new carpet. - -"Judith is the craziest girl about doing things," replied Jean; "she -is ambitious, and she thinks she must earn money. I told her you -wrote for a paper that was full of business for women, and could tell -her what to do." - -"What does she wish to do?" - -"Study, and write--she writes the dearest little stories,--or anything -else, if she cannot do that. She has _ideas_," said Jean, gravely; -"she is a rusher into new things. I wish she would be married and -have a nice little home and care how the bread rises and the pudding -comes out of the oven." - -"Isn't she interested in housekeeping?" - -"Oh, yes. But it is Miss Marion's. Not her own. It is the _own_ that -makes the difference," replied the girl-wife contentedly, nodding and -smiling out the window to the man in shirt-sleeves and leather apron -who stood in the doorway of the shop talking to the minister on -horseback. - -How could she ever tell Judith that Bensalem was gossiping about her -staying at the parsonage? - -"Your work is your own; it comes to be your own, whatever it is. -Every girl cannot marry a blacksmith, Jean, and have a small home of -her own." - -"I know it. I wish they could. What I wish most for Judith is for her -to go back to Aunt Affy's." - -That afternoon as the three sat together in the blacksmith's parlor, -Jean with towels she was hemming for her mother, and the other two -with idle hands and work upon their laps, Jean suddenly asked Mrs. -Lane to tell them about women and their doings. - -"As I waited in the station for my train the day I came here," began -Mrs. Lane in the conversational tone of one prepared for a long talk, -"a lady sat near me, also waiting, with a bag in her hand. I had a -bag in my hand, but there was nothing unusual in mine; she told me -she was going to Dunellen to take care of ladies' finger-nails. She -had a good business in Dunellen and the suburbs in summer, when the -people were in their country homes; there were a few ladies who -expected her that day." - -"I wouldn't like to do that," declared Jean, "although I would do -almost anything to pay off our mortgage." - -"In Buffalo is a woman who runs a street-cleaning bureau; in Kansas -City a woman is at the head of a fire department." - -"Worse and worse," laughed Jean. - -"A Louisville lady makes shopping trips to Paris." - -"Splendid," exclaimed Jean, who still dreamed of outings. - -"A lady in New York makes flat-furnishing a business." - -"That is making a home for other people," said Jean. - -"But her own at the same time," answered Judith. - -"New Hampshire has a woman president of a street railway company; and -in Chicago is a woman who embalms--" - -"Dead people," interrupted Jean; "oh, dear me!" - -"The world is learning the resources of the nineteenth century woman. -A Swiss woman has invented a watch for the blind. The hours on the -dial are indicated by pegs, which sink in, one every hour." - -"That is worth doing," observed Judith; "I want to do real work. I -know I do not mean my work to end with myself." - -"Lady Somebody has classified her husband's books, with a -catalogue--his papers fill five rooms; think of the work before her." - -"But that is not for herself," demurred Judith. - -"I believe Judith would like to be famous," said Jean with a laugh. -"Bensalem is such a little spot to her." - -"A lady is about to translate King Oscar of Sweden's works into -English; would you like to do that, Judith?" asked Mrs. Lane, who -felt that she had been a friend of Judith MacKenzie's ever since Jean -Draper had known her and written of their girlhood together. - -"Not exactly that," said Judith. - -"The first woman rabbi in the world is in California. She has been -trained in a Hebrew College; Rabbi Moses, the celebrated Jewish -divine in Chicago, urges her to take a congregation." - -"Then how can the men give thanks in their prayers that they are not -born women?" asked Judith quickly. - -"Do the Jews do that?" inquired Jean. - -"Yes. But I don't believe old Moses did, or this Rabbi Moses," said -Judith. - -"A lady has received the degree of electrical engineer," continued -Mrs. Lane, who appeared to both her listeners to be a Cyclopedia of -Information Concerning Women. - -"Judith doesn't mean such things," explained Jean; "I don't believe -she wants David to teach her to be a blacksmith. But there is a woman -in Dunellen who has a sick husband, and she is doing his work in the -butcher's shop." - -"Would you rather go to Washington, that city of opportunities for -girls? The government offices are filled with women, and young women. -Those who pass the civil service examination must be over twenty. -Many states of the Union are represented. As the departments close at -four in the afternoon, some of the girls take time for other -employments, or for study. One I read of attends medical lectures at -night. Some, who love study, belong to the Chautauqua Circle. French -women, as a rule, have a good business education. In the common -schools they are taught household bookkeeping. The French woman is -expected to help her husband in his business." - -"Not if he is a blacksmith," interjects the blacksmith's wife. - -"Harper has published a series called the Distaff Series: all the -mechanical work, type-setting, printing, binding, covering, and -designing was all done by women." - -"I think I would rather make the inside of a book," said Judith. "But -think of the women that do that and every kind of a book." - -"A lady took the four hundred dollar prize mathematical scholarship -at Cornell University. There were twelve applicants; nine were women." - -"That is _hard_ work," acknowledged Judith, to whom Arithmetic and -Algebra were never a success. She had even shed tears over Geometry, -and how Roger had laughed at her. - -"There's a lady on Long Island who has a farm of five hundred acres; -they call the farm, 'Old Brick.'" - -"Horrid name," interrupted Jean, turning carefully the narrow hem of -the coarse towel. - -"It was a dairy farm, but she found milk not profitable enough, and -gave it up and made a study of live stock. She has made a reputation -as a stock raiser; she raises trotters and road horses," said Mrs. -Lane, watching the effect of her words upon Judith. - -Judith colored and looked displeased. Was this all Mrs. Lane, Jean's -ideal lady, had to tell her of women's brave work? - -"In Italy nearly two millions of women are employed in industrial -pursuits, cotton, silk, linen, and jute. Three million women are busy -in agriculture. You might try agriculture here in Bensalem." - -"What do their homes do?" inquired Jean, the home-maker. - -"Oh, they do woman's work, beside." - -"It is all woman's work, I suppose, if women do it," answered Judith, -discouraged. - -"Judith, who is the sweetest woman you know?" asked Mrs. Lane, -touched by the droop of the girl's head and the trouble in her eyes. - -"I know ever so many. No one could be sweeter than my mother. And my -Aunt Affy is strong and sweet, and doing good to everybody. And Mrs. -Kenney, Marion's mother, she is _in_ things, busy and bright always." - -"I have told you some things women may do; now I'll tell you some -things a woman--one woman--may not do. She cannot do--is not allowed to -do--some things a washer-woman in Bensalem may do--But I'll read you -the slip; I have it in my pocket-book." - -She took the cutting from her pocket-book and asked Judith to read it -aloud. - -Judith read: "Queen Victoria, not being born a queen, probably -learned to read just like other persons. But after she became -afflicted with royalty she found that a queen is not allowed to have -a great many privileges that the humblest of her subjects can boast. -For instance, she isn't allowed to handle a newspaper of any kind, -nor a magazine, nor a letter from any person except from her own -family, and no member of the royal family or household is allowed to -speak to her of any piece of news in any publication. All the -information the queen is permitted must first be strained through the -intellect of a man whose business it is to cut out from the papers -each day what he thinks she would like to know. These scraps he -fastens on a silken sheet with a gold fringe all about it, and -presents to her unfortunate majesty. This silken sheet with gold -fringe is imperative for all communications to the queen. - -"Any one who wishes to send the queen a personal poem or a -communication of any kind (except a personal letter, which the poor -lady isn't allowed to have at all) must have it printed in gold -letters on one side of these silk sheets with a gold fringe, just so -many inches wide and no wider, all about it. These gold trimmings -will be returned to him in time, as they are expensive, and the queen -is kindly and thrifty; but for the queen's presents they are -imperative. The deprivations of the queen's life are pathetically -illustrated by an incident which occurred not long ago. An American -lad sent her majesty an immense collection of the flowers of this -country, pressed and mounted. The queen was delighted with the -collection and kept it for three months, turning over the leaves -frequently with great delight. At the end of that time, which was as -long as she was allowed by the court etiquette to keep it, she had it -sent back with a letter saying that, being queen of England, she was -not allowed to have any gifts, and that she parted from them with -deep regret." - -"Well," exclaimed Jean, with an energy that brought a laugh from her -small audience, "I would rather be the Bensalem blacksmith's wife." - -"I wish I could take this to Nettie," said Judith; "she thinks -sometimes she would like to be a queen." - -"She is, in her small province," replied Mrs. Lane. "I have something -for her; I think I can help her step out into as wide a world as she -cares to live in. No; don't ask me; it is to be her secret and my -own. Now, Judith, tell me, what is the secret of the happy and useful -lives you know?" - -"I don't know," replied Judith, truthfully. "But they are all -married. I am thinking of girls--like me. Their work came to them." - -"As mine did," said Jean, contentedly, with a glance from her work -out the window where the blacksmith was shoeing a horse. - -"Your Aunt Affy was not married--" - -"No, she was not. She had her work. It was in her home. She was born -among her work. But I have not a home like that," Judith answered in -short, sharp sentences. - -"Why, Judith," reproached Jean, "what would Aunt Affy say to that?" - -"It would hurt her. She would look sorry. I do not know what gets -into me, sometimes. She would adopt me and be like my own mother." - -"Do you resist such a sweet mothering as that?" rebuked Mrs. Lane. "I -think I lost some of the sermon Sunday morning by looking at her -face." - -"I do not mean to _resist_ her," said Judith, not able to keep the -tears back. - -"She told mother her heart ached to have you back," persuaded Jean, -"since her sister died she had so longed for her little girl." - -"I'm afraid I am not doing right," confessed Judith, "but I was -almost homesick there, when Aunt Rody was sick. And then, I think I -_must_ learn to support myself, and not be dependent." - -"Oh, you American girl," said Mrs. Lane. - -"And with Aunt Affy for your _mother_," added Jean; "I told Mrs. Lane -you had ideas." - -"I should think I had," said Judith, laughing to keep the tears back. -"I'm afraid I've forgotten Aunt Affy. She loves two people in me, she -says; my mother and me. I don't know what _has_ possessed me." - -"Ambition, perhaps," Mrs. Lane suggested, taking up her knitting,--a -long black stocking for her only grandchild. - -"Not just that," Judith reasoned; "it is more making something of -myself for myself. Culture for its own sake," she quoted from Roger, -who had warned her against her devotion to self-culture; "and I give -it a self-sacrificing name; the desire to be independent. I do not -know why I should _not_ be dependent on Aunt Affy. My mother was--and -loved it." - -"No service could be more acceptable than serving her," said Mrs. -Lane; "the world is only a larger Bensalem." - -"It isn't the _world_ I wanted," replied Judith, impatiently. - -When Judith went away Jean walked down the street with her. "Are you -disappointed in Mrs. Lane?" she asked. - -"She did not tell me what I hoped and expected. She told me something -better. I think I can study at Aunt Affy's," in the tone of one -having made a sacrifice. - -"And go to the parsonage every day," said Jean eagerly, and yet -afraid of pressing her point. - -"Yes--if I wish to," replied Judith slowly, surprising herself by -coming to a decision. - -"Bensalem is such a place for talk," Jean ventured, not that she was -confident of success. "Everybody knows everybody's business and is -interested in it." - -"But it is kindly talk," said Judith, whom gossip had touched lightly. - -"Yes, sometimes--not always," Jean hesitated; "people will misjudge." - -"Jean Draper, what do you mean?" asked Judith, blazing angrily; "are -you trying to tell me something?" - -"No," replied Jean, startled at Judith's unusual vehemence. "I only -want you to understand that Aunt Affy is talked about for letting you -stay so much at the parsonage." - -"How could it hurt anybody?" - -"They say Aunt Affy is--scheming," she said, watching the effect of -her words. - -"Scheming. What about? What does _she_ gain?" asked Judith, provoked. - -"The gain is for you," said Jean, at last, desperately; "they say she -wants to marry you to the minister." - -Now she had said it. She stood still, frightened. Judith left her -without another word, going straight on to the parsonage. After a -moment Jean turned and went home. - -What would Judith do? She looked angry enough to do anything. But she -had shielded her from further talk. Bensalem should have no more to -say. - -Judith went on dazed. Now she understood it all; Martha was coming -that she might go; they did not like to tell her to go; they were all -too kind. As if Aunt Affy could plot like that. As if Aunt Affy cared -for that: Aunt Affy who wanted to keep her always. - -Had Marion heard the talk? And Roger? Was he glad to send her away -with his mother? She would fly to Aunt Affy that very night; the old -house would be her refuge. She would go back to Aunt Affy--and her -mother's home. Roger, her saint, her hero, her ideal--he could never -think of her--like that. - -She opened the door and went in. Marion had taken her mother for a -drive. The study door was shut, the usual signal when Roger was busy. -But she often ventured; the shut door had never barred her out. -Nothing had ever kept her away from Roger. She tapped; Roger called: -"Come in." - -He was writing and did not lift his eyes. - -She waited; he looked up and smiled. - -"Can you stop one minute?" she asked, faintly. - -"One and a half." - -"I came to tell you that I have thought it over; I would rather not -go home with Mrs. Kenney." - -"Stay then, with all my heart." - -"But not with all my heart. I am going to Aunt Affy's instead. She -wants me," she said, quietly, with a quiver of the lip. - -"I should think she would." - -"I did not know how much. She herself would not tell me. Jean Draper -told me. Aunt Affy told her mother." - -"That will not change our plans of study at all." - -"No; it need not." - -"It shall not." - -"I think I can get on alone awhile. You have taught me how to use -books. You have shown me that they are tools. I can write by myself. -You have been to me like Maria Edgeworth's father. Perhaps it is time -for Maria to stand alone." - -"You are tired of my teaching." - -"Oh, no; I am not tired of anything--excepting Bensalem. I _hate_ -Bensalem," she burst out with anger and contrition. - -"What has Bensalem done now?" - -"Nothing unusual. Will you tell Marion I am going--home to stay -to-night? Martha will come and help her in the housekeeping." - -"Judith, has any one hurt you?" - -"No," said Judith, smiling with the tears starting; "you are all too -kind." - -"Is it for Aunt Affy you are going? Judith, you cannot deceive me." - -"No; I do not think I can. I am going for Aunt Affy's sake, Roger." - -"Because she misses you?" - -"Yes, because she misses me, and needs me. People think and say--she -is not taking good care of me. I wish to prove to them that she is." - -"That is sheer nonsense," he exclaimed, angrily. - -"It is not nonsense that she misses me now that her sister is gone. I -never had any sister excepting Marion, but I know it was dreadful for -Aunt Affy to lose her sister. If you haven't helped me to study -alone, to depend upon myself, you have been very little help to me." - -"That is true," he laughed, "but the studying is only a part of what -the parsonage is to you." - -"It was my reason for coming, and staying," she said, simply, -flushing and trembling. - -"True; I had forgotten that. Yes; it is better for you to go; best -for you to go. Come to-morrow and talk it over to Marion and my -mother. I will tell them only that you have gone--home, to spend the -night." - -He took up his pen, it trembled in his grasp; Judith went out and -shut the door that he might not be disturbed. - -"I am giving it all up," she thought, as she pressed a few things -into a satchel; "all I was going away to get; perhaps _this_ is the -way my prayer for work is being answered." - -They were at supper when she stood in the doorway; Aunt Affy at the -head of the table behind the tea-pot and the cups and saucers; her -husband opposite her, genial, handsome, satisfied, and Joe, at one -side of the round table, tall, fine-looking, with his gray, -thoughtful eyes, refined lips, and modest manner. Joe was a son to be -proud of, the old people sometimes said to each other. - -There was no chair opposite Joe, no plate, and knife and fork and -napkin. Uncle Cephas liked a hot supper; they had chicken stew -to-night, and boiled rice. It was like home, the faces, the things on -the supper-table. She was homesick enough to long for some place -"like" home. The parsonage could never be her home again, with Martha -in her place; perhaps Martha had been wishing to come for years; -perhaps her selfishness had kept Martha away. - -John would be married, Martha would be in her place at the -parsonage,--Don was too far away to know, and too absorbed in his wife -to care; Mrs. Kenney did not really _want_ her, she had only asked -her to go home with her to get her away from the parsonage; the only -home she had a _right_ to was this home where her mother had been a -little girl. - -"Why, Judith," cried Aunt Affy, rising, "dear child, what is the -matter?" - -"I wanted to come home," said Judith. - - - - -XXXII. AUNT AFFY'S PICTURE. - - - "That only which we have within can we see without." - - --Emerson. - -Judith stood at the sitting-room window looking out into the March -snow-storm. There had been many snow-storms since that November night -she came to the threshold and stood looking in at the happy -supper-table. Aunt Affy had opened her arms and heart anew and folded -her close: "My lamb has come back," she said. - -"To stay back," Judith whispered, hiding her face on Aunt Affy's -shoulder. - -That night was nearly two years ago; she would be twenty in April. -She was not "twenty in April" to Aunt Affy; she was still her "lamb" -and her "little girl." - -In her dark blue cloth dress, and with her yellow head and -rose-tinted cheeks, she did not look as grown-up as she felt; she had -taken life, not only with both hands, but with heart, brain, and -spirit, and with all her might. There was nothing in her that she had -not put into her life; her simple, Bensalem life. - -"Aunt Affy," she said, as Aunt Affy's step paused on the threshold -between kitchen and sitting-room, "Come and rest awhile in this -fire-light. This fire on the hearth to-night reminds me of the glow -of the grate in Summer Avenue when I used to tell pictures to mother." - -Aunt Affy pulled down the shades; Judith drew Aunt Affy's chair to -the home-made rug--Aunt Rody's rug,--to the hearth, and then sat down -on the hassock at her feet, and looked into the fire, not the -curly-headed girl in Summer Avenue, but the girl grown up. - -"Aunt Affy, tell _me_ a picture," she coaxed. - -"What about?" - -"About myself. I'm afraid I am too full of myself. I cannot -understand something. I can tell you about it, for it is past, and I -can look at it as something in the past. You know those years I was -at the parsonage, at my boarding-school, I was crammed full with one -hope." - -Judith was looking at the fire; the eyes looking down at her were -solicitous, tender. She had been afraid Judith "cared too much" for -the young minister; but it must be over now, or she could not tell -her about it so frankly. - -"I dreamed it, I studied it, I wrote it, I prayed about it, I -_breathed_ it." - -"Oh," said Aunt Affy, with a quick, heavy sigh. - -"Don't pity me. It was good for me, blessed for me, or it could not -have happened, you know. I thought there was some great work for me -to do--" - -"Oh," said Aunt Affy, with a quick, relieved cry. - -"I was not sure whether it were to write a book, or to teach, or to -go as a foreign missionary; I think I hoped it would be the foreign -missionary, because that was the most self-sacrificing. The book was -all one great joy. The teaching was absorbing, but I must go away to -study. I was afraid to go away, I did not like to go away from -Bensalem, I would miss my mother away from Bensalem, and you, and all -the parsonage, and the whole village. But I thought I was called; as -called as Roger was to preach, or any woman, saint, or heroine, who -had done a great thing. You cannot think what it was to me. It made -me old. I wanted God to speak out of Heaven and tell me what to do. -It began to lose its selfishness, after that. The first thing that -began to shake my confidence was something Mrs. Lane said that -afternoon she talked to Jean and me about what women were doing and -could do. She did not make woman's work attractive; she took the -heart out of me. I did not know why she should do that. I knew better -all the time. I knew what women had done and were doing. I knew she -was doing a noble work, literary work, work in prisons, temperance -work; the instances she gave me seemed trivial, as if she were -laughing at me. But something opened my eyes; I felt that I might be -disobedient to my heavenly vision, that I was looking up into the -heavens for my call, and the voice might be all the time in my ear. -That was the night I came back here and found you so cozy and -satisfied under your own roof-tree, with the voice in your ear, and -the work in your hand. The world went away from me. I stayed. I am -glad I stayed. My only trouble is, and it is a real trouble, that God -did not care for my purpose, or my prayers; that he has let them go -as if they never entered into his mind; I thought they were in his -heart as well as mine." - -"They are, Deary," said Aunt Affy, wiping her eyes; "He will not let -one of them go." - -"But He did not do anything with them. He did not _love_ my plan, and -my prayers," said Judith, wearily. - -"Do you remember one time when Jesus was on the earth, a man, clothed -and in his right mind, sat at Jesus' feet? He had so much to be -thankful for; no man ever had so much. And he sat at Jesus' feet, -near him because he loved him, and looked up into his face and -listened. That was all he wanted on the earth, to be with Jesus; to -follow him everywhere, to obey every word he said, to always see his -face, to serve him. Did not the Lord care for such love when so many -were scorning him and ashamed to be his disciples? When he came to -his own, and his own received him not. When the man found that Jesus -was going away, that his countrymen were sending him away, beseeching -him to go, he besought Jesus, which was more than one asking, that he -might go with him. That was all he wanted: just to go with him. Just -as all you wanted was to be with him and do something he said, _and -be sure he said it_. But Jesus sent this man away. He refused him; he -denied his prayer." - -"That was very hard," said Judith. - -"Very hard. It was like giving him a glimpse of Heaven--it was Heaven, -and then shutting the door in his face as he prayed." - -"Yes," said Judith, who understood. - -"But he did speak to him; he told him what to do: 'Return to thine -own house.' If he had father, mother, brother, sister, wife, -children, go back to them and tell them how good God had been to him. -When I look at you, Deary, stepping about the house, so pretty and -bright, I think of how glad your mother must be if she sees you. How -glad to know the little girl she left was taken care of. And in -church when you play the organ, and in Sunday School, and at the -Lord's own table, and doing errands all around the village, you are a -blessing in your 'own house.'" - -Judith's head went down on Aunt Affy's knee. - -"This man went through the 'whole city' beside; his own house grew -into the whole city. Your life isn't ended yet; to old folks like -Uncle Cephas and me, it seems just begun. Your own house is only just -the beginning of the whole city. I've only had my own house and -Bensalem, but I seem to think there's a whole city for you. The Lord -knew about the whole city when he denied his prayer and sent him to -his own house." - -Judith did not lift her head; her tears were tears of shame and -penitence. - -"Now, here come the men folks," roused Aunt Affy, cheerily; "and -supper they must have to keep them good-natured." - -"I am only in my 'own house' yet," said Judith, as she moved about -setting the supper table as she had done when she was a little girl. - - - - -XXXIII. NETTIE'S OUTING. - - - "Does the road wind up hill all the way?" - "Yes, to the very end." - "Will the day's journey take the whole, long day?" - "From morn to night, my friend." - - --Christina G. Rossetti. - -This same evening, in the March snow-storm, Nettie Evans sat in her -invalid chair beside the table in her chamber. Nettie had not grown up -in appearance; face and figure were slight, her cheeks were pale, her -eyes large and luminous; her laugh was as light-hearted as the laugh -of any girl in the village; her father often told her that she was the -busiest maiden in Bensalem. - -Her busy times grew out of Mrs. Lane's secret. - -Nettie was the member of a society; the Shut-In Society. It was an -organized society; it published a magazine monthly: _The Open Window_, -with a motto upon its title-page: - - "The windows of my soul I throw - Wide open to the sun." - -Since Mrs. Lane had told her about the Society and made her a member -she had thrown the windows of her soul wide open to the sun. - -_And the Lord shut him in_, was the motto of the Society. Nettie had -marked the precious words in her Bible with the date of her accident, -and another date: the day when she became a member of the Shut-In -Society. - -_The Open Window_ had come in to-night's mail; Nettie had been -counting the hours until mail time, and laughed a joyful little laugh -all to herself when she heard her father say to her mother in the -hall below: "It's mail time, and I must go to the office to-night, -storm or no storm; Nettie will not sleep a wink unless she has her -magazine." - -It was her feast every month. The members and associates numbered -hundreds and hundreds, Nettie did not know how many; and they were -all around the world. Nettie herself had had a letter from the -Sandwich Islands: the magazine was sent to a leper colony, but she -would never dare to write a letter to such a place. With every fresh -magazine she read the object and aim of the Society:-- - -"This Association shall be called the Shut-in Society, and shall -consist of Members and Associates. Its object shall be: To relieve -the weariness of the sick-room by sending and receiving letters and -other tokens of remembrance; to testify to the love and presence of -Christ in the hour of suffering and privation; to pray for one -another at set times: daily, at the twilight hour, and weekly on -Tuesday morning at ten o'clock; to stimulate faith, hope, patience, -and courage in fellow-sufferers by the study and presentation of -Bible promises. - -"To be a sufferer, shut in from the outside world, constitutes one a -proper candidate for membership in this Society. All members are -requested to send with their application, if possible, the name of -their pastor or their physician, or of some Associate of the Society, -as introduction; and no name should be forwarded for membership until -the individual has been consulted and consent obtained. If able, -members are expected to pay 50 cents yearly for The Open Window. Any -who are unable will please inform the Secretary. - -"As this is not an almsgiving society, its members are requested not -to apply for money or other material aid to the officers, Associates, -or other members. Any assistance which can be given in the way of -remunerative work will be cheerfully rendered. - -"Members are not to urge upon any one in the Society the peculiar -belief of any particular sect or denomination. - -"Associate members are not themselves invalids, but, being in tender -sympathy with the suffering, volunteer in this ministry of love for -Jesus' sake." - -Mrs. Lane had been an Associate member from the time of the -organization of the Society in 1877. Jean Draper Prince, coming to -Nettie's chamber upon the Shut-In's last birthday, and finding her -with a tableful and lapful of mail packages, had told her that Mrs. -Lane had given her the biggest "outing" any girl in the village ever -had. - -Nettie had fifteen regular correspondents, and never a week passed -that she was not touched by an appeal for letters and did not write -an extra letter to some one not on her "list." The wool slippers in -her work-basket she had finished to-day for a Shut-In birthday gift -next month. Every night in her prayer she gave thanks for the -blessings that widened and brightened her life through "the dear -Shut-In Society." - -As she sat reading her magazine, too deep in it to hear a sound, -light feet ran up the narrow stairway. She did not lift her eyes -until Pet Draper, Jean's youngest sister, pushed the door open. - -"Why, Pet," she exclaimed. "Are you out in this storm?" - -"No," laughed Pet, "I am _in_ in this storm. I came to stay all -night." - -"I shouldn't think you _would_ want to go out again to-night." - -"Oh, it isn't so bad. The snow is light. Joe brought me," she said, -with sudden meaning in her tones. - -"Did he?" asked Nettie, absently; "just let me read you this. 'This -lady walked forty steps to go out to tea--for the first time in -thirty-two years.' I wonder if I shall ever go out to tea." - -"Nettie, you shall come to my wedding." - -"Pet!" exclaimed Nettie, in delight and surprise. - -"Yes. And I came to tell you. I told Joe tonight I would marry him," -she said, laughing and coloring. - -"I'm so glad. I'm so _glad_," repeated Nettie; "he is so good and -kind." - -"He is as good as David Prince any day. Jean needn't put on airs -because he was only a farm boy. He is more than that now. Mr. Brush -has promised to build a little house just opposite his house, across -the road, and Joe is not to be paid wages, but to take the farm on -shares. Plenty of people do that. Mr. Brush says he is his -right-hand. Father will furnish our house--it will not take much. -Perhaps some day Joe will have a farm of his own. My father had to -earn his farm, and that's why the mortgage isn't off yet. Joe has -saved some money, and so have I. Agnes Trembly will try to give me -her customers when she is married; she always speaks a good word for -me. I've made dresses for Mrs. Brush and Judith and Miss Marion." - -"And wrappers for me," said Nettie. - -"Yes, I shall always have you to make my fortune." - -"That is splendid, and I am so glad. But here's my letter in the -_Open Window_: do let me read it to you." - -Pet laughed, and listened. She believed Nettie liked the Shut-In -Society as well as having a new little house and a husband. Nettie -would have told her she liked it better. - -While Pet slept her happy, healthful sleep that night, after her -somewhat hurried two minutes of kneeling to pray, Nettie lay -peacefully awake remembering the "requests for prayer" in her _Open -Window_. - -"Our prayers are earnestly asked for an aged man, who has lost the -home of his childhood, that he may feel that God does it for the best -and may love God. Also a lady whose life is very sad, that she may -look up to God and rejoice in him. - -"Pray for one who fears blindness, that if possible it may be -averted, but if it must be, in the midst of darkness there may be the -light of God's countenance. - -"Let us remember the sorrowing hearts from whom sisters or parents or -children have been taken by death. - -"One long a sufferer from disease, asks us to pray that if it be -God's will she may be healed. - -"One who feels that answers to our prayers have been granted, asks -that we still pray that the use of his limbs may be restored and that -a beloved mother may long be spared to him." - -"One of our number writes, 'Pray that father and the children may be -saved and that mother and I love God better.' It is hard sometimes -for Christians so to live that unconverted members of the family be -drawn by their lives toward Christ. This mother and daughter truly -need our prayers. - -"One of our band is trying to build up a church in a lonely spot. She -asks us to pray God's help for her." - -Nettie's outing went out farther than anyone knew. She could tell -about her gifts and her letters, but never about her intercession. - -"I wonder," she planned, "if I couldn't have a little Fair; all the -girls would do something; I have so little money to give. I couldn't -go--unless I have it in my room." - -She wanted to wake Pet to talk about it, but that would be selfish, -and then--Pet might be cross. - -She fell asleep beside the strong young girl who lent her life from -her own vitality; the full, breathing lips, the warm cheeks, the head -with its masses of auburn hair, the touch of the hand upon her own -were all life giving. Nettie loved girls; the girls who were what she -might have been. - -Awaking out of restless sleep, she remembered the Midnight Circle to -pray for the sleepless, and prayed: "Father, give them all sleep, if -thou wilt; but, if thy will be not so, give them all _something -better than sleep_." - - - - -XXXIV. "SENSATIONS." - - - "Being fruitful in every good work, and increasing - in the knowledge of God." - -This same March night in the snow-storm the Bensalem preacher sat -alone in his study among his books, with his thoughts among his -people whom he loved. - -Marion brought her work-basket and took her seat on the other side of -the lamp. The evening's mail was upon the table. - -"What do the letters bring to-night, Roger?" she inquired in the tone -of one hungry for news. - -"Enough to stir us up for one while." - -"Good. I am always ready to be stirred up. I have been stagnant all -day." - -"What a girl you are for wanting new sensations." - -"Aren't you always after them?" - -"No, they are always after me." - -"Which one is after you now?" - -"Four." - -"Four letters," she said, eagerly. - -"There are more than four letters. But four have sensations." - -"Do give me half a sensation." - -"What do you think of John writing me that he is tired of medicine, -it is too big a pull; he wants me to break it to father, and ask him -to take him into the business." - -"Father will be glad enough; but he will not like John to give up for -such a reason." - -"I imagine that girl is at the bottom of it. Girls are usually at the -bottom of things. Her father will be willing for the marriage if John -goes into business; he did not relish the idea of a struggling -professional man." - -"Lottie Kindare is not the girl to relish a long engagement, either. -I am not surprised at _that_ sensation." - -"You will not be surprised that Richard King has resigned and -accepted a call to the Summer Avenue church." - -"Oh, no; father said they were determined to have him." - -"And he's to be married, too." - -"I cannot be surprised at that. That is not a sensation. I knew he -was taken with Agnes Trembly that first time he met her here. She did -look as sweet as a violet. She has grown like a flower this last -year." - -"Thanks to you. You have been a wonderful help to her. You took her -into a new world." - -"That is what I tried to do. She was ready for it. And to think our -little country dressmaker will be the wife of the Summer Avenue -minister." - -"Oh, she'll take to it. It is in her." - -"Yes; she has tact." - -"And natural ability." - -"That is only--how many sensations?" - -"You saw that one letter was from Don. He is coming home next month. -Really, this time." - -"His wife has been dead--" - -"A year. Their married life was very short. All the happier because -it was short. She has become a blessed memory to him. She was very -sweet in the last month of her life. He loved her then as he had -never loved her before. She told him that she did not love him when -she married him; that she married him to get away from her uncle's -home. That last month was the one sweet drop in his bitter cup." - -"Roger, you knew his story all the time." - -"From the very first. He was not proud with me. He is so much like a -woman that he had to tell somebody." - -"That proves how little you know of women," was the woman's unspoken -comment. - -"Now, for my last sensation. The First Church in Dunellen asks if I -will accept a call." - -"O, Roger," with a mingling of sensations. - -"It is 'O, Roger,' I am torn in two." - -"One Roger for Bensalem and one for Dunellen." - -"I have known for some time that I might have the call. Dear old Dr. -Kent has resigned. He told me he wanted to throw his mantle over me." - -"The salary is twenty-five hundred and parsonage," remarked Marion. - -"I suppose I am not above the consideration of salary. I cannot work -at tent making." - -"Bensalem has had the best of you." - -"Well, I hope not--at my age." - -"Bensalem has been preparation for Dunellen, then," she amended. - -"What do you advise?" - -"I do not advise a man when his mind is made up." - -"Bensalem has been good for us." - -"And we have not been so bad for Bensalem. Seven is the perfect -number. We have been here seven years. What _will_ Judith say?" - -"I think I will go and see," he said, rising. - -"To-night? In the storm?" - -"It will be the first storm I ever was afraid of." - -Left alone, Marion forgot her work. It was not only Dunellen. He -would forget to ask Judith about Dunellen. - -Judith was sitting before the fire on the hearth with a book when -Roger stamped up on the piazza. Aunt Affy, mixing bread at the -kitchen table, heard the gate swing to, and called to Uncle Cephas -that somebody must want shelter for the night to come out in such a -storm. Uncle Cephas dropped his newspaper and opened the sitting-room -door that led to the piazza. - -"Well, the minister, of all things!" - -"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Aunt Affy, rubbing the flour off her hands. - -Judith sat still by the fire. - -"I had to come to see my elder," explained Roger. - -"Oh, church business," said Aunt Affy enlightened. - -"Young folks never mind a storm," remarked the elder. "Shake off your -snow, and come to the fire." - -As Judith arose with her book Roger detained her; "This isn't a -secret session, Judith. You and Aunt Affy must help me decide about -Dunellen." - -"Dunellen! Has it come to that?" inquired the elder. - -"Dunellen has come to me. The First Church has come to me." - -"I might have known what would come of your exchanging so often," -remarked Uncle Cephas, discontentedly. - -"I thought you did it to rest Dr. Kent," reproached Aunt Affy. - -"I did. It did rest him." - -"And you got ensnared yourself. Roger Kenney, are you going there for -the money?" asked Uncle Cephas, with solemnity. - -"You know better than that," replied Roger, angrily. - -"The heart of man is deceitful. There's a great difference in the -salary. But there's a difference in the man. You've grown some since -you came here seven years ago." - -"Uncle Cephas, I think you are _wicked_," protested Judith, with -tearful vehemence. "If you don't know Roger better than that you do -not know him at all." - -"You don't know men," insisted the elder of the Bensalem church. "The -heart is deceitful and desperately wicked." - -"Judith knows mine is not," laughed Roger. - -"Judith, don't fly at me and eat me up," said Uncle Cephas; "I know -this young man as well as most folks. He doesn't love money _enough_. -He may be going for something, but it isn't for money." - -"He is going for more young folks," said Aunt Affy, "and men about -his own age. I'm willing, but it's terrible hard." - -Judith turned to the fire again. - -"Come, sit down and let's talk it over," said Uncle Cephas, in a -pacified tone; "I won't pull the wrong way if it's best." - -An hour afterward Aunt Affy called her husband out into the kitchen. - -"Cephas," she whispered, "don't you _know_ he wants to ask Judith -what she thinks?" - -"She isn't a member of the session," replied Uncle Cephas, with -dignity. - -"She is a member of _his_ session," said wise Aunt Affy. - -After this, what more would you know of Judith's growing up? - -She was married on her twentieth birthday, and her Cousin Don was at -the wedding. She was married in the Bensalem church; Richard King -performed the ceremony. Roger asked if she would have dear old Dr. -Kent, but in memory of that afternoon at Meadow Centre, she chose -Richard King. - -"Don, it wouldn't have been perfect without you," she whispered when -her Cousin Don kissed her. The next year Judith finished her book of -children's stories which she wished to take to Heaven to show her -mother. - -Marion was the maiden aunt at the Dunellen parsonage. Don Mackenzie -was everybody's good friend. - - - - - A. L. Burt's Catalogue of Books - for Young People by Popular Writers, - 52-58 Duane Street, New York - - BOOKS FOR GIRLS - -Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. By Lewis Carroll. 12mo, cloth, 42 -illustrations, price 75 cents. - - "From first to last, almost without exception, this story is - delightfully droll, humorous and illustrated in harmony with - the story."--New York Express. - -Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There. By Lewis -Carroll. 12mo, cloth, 50 illustrations, price 75 cents. - - "A delight alike to the young people and their elders, - extremely funny both In test and illustrations."--Boston - Express. - -Little Lucy's Wonderful Globe. By Charlotte M. Yonge. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "This story is unique among tales intended for children, alike - for pleasant instruction, quaintness of humor, gentle pathos, - and the subtlety with which lessons moral and otherwise fire - conveyed to children, and perhaps to their seniors as - well."--The Spectator. - -Joan's Adventures at the North Pole and Elsewhere. By Alice Corkran. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Wonderful as the adventures of Joan are. It must be admitted - that they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly - presented. Altogether this is an excellent story for - girls."--Saturday Review. - -Count Up the Sunny Days: A Story for Girls and Boys. By C. A. Jones. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "An unusually good children's story."--Glasgow Herald. - -The Dove in the Eagle's Nest. By Charlotte M. Yonge. 13mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Among all the modern writers we believe Miss Yonge first, not - in genius, but in this, that she employs her great abilities - for a high and noble purpose. We know of few modern writers - whose works may be so safely commended as hers."--Cleveland Times. - -Jan of the Windmill. A Story of the Plains. By Mrs. J. H. Ewing. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Never has Mrs. Ewing published a more charming volume, and - that is saying a very great deal. From the first to the last - the book overflows with the strange knowledge of child-nature - which so rarely survives childhood; and moreover, with - inexhaustible quiet humor, which is never anything but - innocent and well-bred, never priggish, and never - clumsy."--Academy. - -A Sweet Girl Graduate. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price -$1.00. - - "One of this popular author's best. The characters are well - imagined and drawn. The story moves with plenty of spirit and - the interest does not flag until the end too quickly - comes."--Providence Journal. - -Six to Sixteen: A Story for Girls. By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "There is no doubt as to the good quality and attractiveness - of 'Six to Sixteen.' The book is one which would enrich any - girl's book shelf."--St. James' Gazette. - -The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "A bright and interesting story. The many admirers of Mrs. L. - T. Meade in this country will be delighted with the 'Palace - Beautiful' for more reasons than one. It is a charming book - for girls."--New York Recorder. - -A World of Girls: The Story of a School. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of those wholesome stories which it does one good to - read. It will afford pure delight to numerous readers. This - book should be on every girl's book shelf."--Boston Home - Journal. - -The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "This story is written in the author's well-known, fresh and - easy style. All girls fond of reading will be charmed by this - well-written story. It is told with the author's customary - grace and spirit."--Boston Times. - -At the Back of the North Wind. By George Macdonald. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "A very pretty story, with much of the freshness and vigor of - Mr. Macdonald's earlier work.... It is a sweet, earnest, and - wholesome fairy story, and the quaint native humor is - delightful. A most delightful volume for young - readers."--Philadelphia Times. - -The Water Babies: A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. By Charles Kingsley. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "The strength of his work, as well as its peculiar charms, - consist in his description of the experiences of a youth with - life under water in the luxuriant wealth of which he revels - with all the ardor of a poetical nature."--New York Tribune. - -Our Bessie. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of the most entertaining stories of the season, full of - vigorous action, and strong in character-painting. Older girls - will be charmed with it, and adults may read its pages with - profit."--The Teachers' Aid. - -Wild Kitty. A Story of Middleton School. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Kitty is a true heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, - as all good women nowadays are, largely touched with the - enthusiasm of humanity. One of the most attractive gift books - of the season."--The Academy. - -A Young Mutineer. A Story, for Girls. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of Mrs. Meade's charming books for girls, narrated in - that simple and picturesque style which marks the authoress as - one of the first among writers for young people"--The Spectator. - -Sue and I. By Mrs. O'Reilly. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "A thoroughly delightful book, full of sound wisdom as well as - fun."--Athenaeum. - -The Princess and the Goblin. A Fairy Story. By George Macdonald. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "If a child once begins this book, it will get so deeply - interested in it that when bedtime comes it will altogether - forget the moral, and will weary its parents with - importunities for just a few minutes more to see how - everything ends."--Saturday Review. - -Pythia's Pupils: A Story of a School. By Eva Hartner. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "This story of the doings of several bright school girls is - sure to interest girl readers. Among many good stories for - girls this is undoubtedly one of the very best."--Teachers' Aid. - -A Story of a Short Life. By Juliana Horatia Ewing. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "The book is one we can heartily recommend, for it is not only - bright and interesting, but also pure and healthy in tone and - teaching."--Courier. - -The Sleepy King. A Fairy Tale. By Aubrey Hopwood and Seymour Hicks. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Wonderful as the adventures of Bluebell are, it must be - admitted that they are very naturally worked out and very - plausibly presented. Altogether this is an excellent story for - girls."--Saturday Review. - -Two Little Waifs. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price -75 cents. - - "Mrs. Molesworth's delightful story of 'Two Little Waifs' will - charm all the small people who find it in their stockings. It - relates the adventures of two lovable English children lost in - Paris, and is just wonderful enough to pleasantly wring the - youthful heart."--New York Tribune. - -Adventures in Toyland. By Edith King Hall. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price 75 cents. - - "The author is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories - are always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and - her record of the adventures is as entertaining and enjoyable - as we might expect."--Boston Courier. - -Adventures in Wallypug Land. By G. E. Farrow. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "These adventures are simply inimitable, and will delight boys - and girls of mature age, as well as their juniors. No happier - combination of author and artist than this volume presents - could be found to furnish healthy amusement to the young - folks. The book is an artistic one in every sense."--Toronto - Mail. - -Fussbudget's Folks. A Story for Young Girls. By Anna F. Burnham. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Mrs. Burnham has a rare gift for composing stories for - children. With a light, yet forcible touch, she paints sweet - and artless, yet natural and strong, - characters."--Congregationalist. - -Mixed Pickles. A Story for Girls. By Mrs. E. M. Field. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "It is, in its way, a little classic, of which the real beauty - and pathos can hardly be appreciated by young people. It is - not too much to say of the story that it is perfect of its - kind."--Good Literature. - -Miss Mouse and Her Boys. A Story for Girls. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Mrs. Molesworth's books are cheery, wholesome, and - particularly well adapted to refined life. It is safe to add - that she is the best English prose writer for children. A new - volume from Mrs. Molesworth is always a treat."--The Beacon. - -Gilly Flower. A Story for Girls. By the author of "Miss Toosey's -Mission." 12mo., cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Jill is a little guardian angel to three lively brothers who - tease and play with her.... Her unconscious goodness brings - right thoughts and resolves to several persons who come into - contact with her. There is no goodiness in this tale, but its - influence is of the best kind."--Literary World. - -The Chaplet of Pearls; or, The White and Black Ribaumont. By Charlotte -M. Yonge. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that - grown-up readers may enjoy it as much as children. It is one - of the best books of the season."--Guardian. - -Naughty Miss Bunny: Her Tricks and Troubles. By Clara Mulholland. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "The naughty child is positively delightful. Papas should not - omit the book from their list of juvenile presents."--Land and - Water. - -Meg's Friend. By Alice Corkran. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of Miss Corkran's charming books for girls, narrated in - that simple and picturesque style which marks the authoress as - one of the first among writers for young people."--The Spectator. - -Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "A charming story for young folks. Averil is a delightful - creature--piquant, tender, and true--and her varying fortunes - are perfectly realistic."--World. - -Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first - to last. This is, both in its intention and the way the story - is told, one of the best books of its kind which has come - before us this year."--Saturday Review. - -Little Sunshine's Holiday: A Picture from Life. By Miss Mulock. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "This is a pretty narrative of child life, describing the - simple doings and sayings of a very charming and rather - precocious child. This is a delightful book for young - people."--Gazette. - -Esther's Charge. A Story for Girls. By Ellen Everett Green. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "... This is a story showing in a charming way how one little - girl's jealousy and bad temper were conquered; one of the - best, most suggestive and improving of the Christmas - juveniles."--New York Tribune. - -Fairy Land of Science. By Arabella B. Buckley. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "We can highly recommend it; not only for the valuable - information it gives on the special subjects to which it is - dedicated, but also as a book teaching natural sciences in an - interesting way. A fascinating little volume, which will make - friends in every household in which there are children."--Daily - News. - -Merle's Crusade. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price -$1.00. - - "Among the books for young people we have seen nothing more - unique than this book. Like all of this author's stories it - will please young readers by the very attractive and charming - style in which it is written."--Journal. - -Birdie: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. Childe-Pemberton. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness - about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the - cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier - years."--New York Express. - -The Days of Bruce: A Story from Scottish History. By Grace Aguilar. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "There is a delightful freshness, sincerity and vivacity about - all of Grace Aguilar's stories which cannot fail to win the - interest and admiration of every lover of good - reading."--Boston Beacon. - -Three Bright Girls: A Story of Chance and Mischance. By Annie E. -Armstrong. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "The charm of the story lies in the cheery helpfulness of - spirit developed in the girls by their changed circumstances; - while the author finds a pleasant ending to all their happy - makeshifts. The story is charmingly told, and the book can be - warmly recommended as a present for girls."--Standard. - -Giannetta: A Girl's Story of Herself. By Rosa Mulholland. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Extremely well told and full of interest. Giannetta is a true - heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all good women - nowadays are, largely touched with enthusiasm of humanity. The - illustrations are unusually good. One of the most attractive - gift books of the season."--The Academy. - -Margery Merton's Girlhood. By Alice Corkran. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price $1.00. - - "The experiences of an orphan girl who in infancy is left by - her father to the care of an elderly aunt residing near Paris. - The accounts of the various persons who have an after - influence on the story are singularly vivid. There is a subtle - attraction about the book which will make it a great favorite - with thoughtful girls."--Saturday Review. - -Under False Colors: A Story from Two Girls' Lives, By Sarah Doudney. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "Sarah Doudney has no superior as a writer of high-toned - stories--pure in style, original in conception, and with - skillfully wrought out plots; but we have seen nothing equal - in dramatic energy to this book."--Christian Leader. - -Down the Snow Stairs; or, From Good-night to Good-morning. By Alice -Corkran. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Among all the Christmas volumes which the year has brought to - our table this one stands out facile princeps--a gem of the - first water, bearing upon every one of its pages the signet - mark of genius.... All is told with such simplicity and - perfect naturalness that the dream appears to be a solid - reality. It is indeed a Little Pilgrim's Progress."--Christian - Leader. - -The Tapestry Room: A Child's Romance. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Mrs. Molesworth is a charming painter of the nature and ways - of children; and she has done good service in giving us this - charming juvenile which will delight the young - people."--Athenaeum, London. - -Little Miss Peggy: Only a Nursery Story. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - Mrs. Molesworth's children are finished studies. A joyous - earnest spirit pervades her work, and her sympathy is - unbounded. She loves them with her whole heart, while she lays - bare their little minds, and expresses their foibles, their - faults, their virtues, their inward struggles, their - conception of duty, and their instinctive knowledge of the - right and wrong of things. She knows their characters, she - understands their wants, and she desires to help them. - -Polly: A New Fashioned Girl. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price $1.00. - - Few authors have achieved a popularity equal to Mrs. Meade as - a writer of stories for young girls. Her characters are living - beings of flesh and blood, not lay figures of conventional - type. Into the trials and crosses, and everyday experiences, - the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. While - Mrs. Meade always writes with a high moral purpose, her - lessons of life, purity and nobility of character are rather - inculcated by example than intruded as sermons. - -One of a Covey. By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mission." 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that - grown-up readers may enjoy it as much as children. This - 'Covey' consists of the twelve children of a hard-pressed Dr. - Partridge out of which is chosen a little girl to be adopted - by a spoiled, fine lady. We have rarely read a story for boys - and girls with greater pleasure. One of the chief characters - would not have disgraced Dickens' pen."--Literary World. - -The Little Princess of Tower Hill. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "This is one of the prettiest books for children published, as - pretty as a pond-lily, and quite as fragrant. Nothing could be - imagined more attractive to young people than such a - combination of fresh pages and fair pictures; and while - children will rejoice over it--which is much better than crying - for it--it is a book that can be read with pleasure even by - older boys and girls."--Boston Advertiser. - -Rosy. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - Mrs. Molesworth, considering the quality and quantity of her - labors, is the best story-teller for children England has yet - known. - - "This is a very pretty story. The writer knows children, and - their ways well. The illustrations are exceedingly well - drawn."--Spectator. - -Esther: A Book for Girls. By Rosa N. Carey. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price $1.00. - - "She inspires her readers simply by bringing them in contact - with the characters, who are in themselves inspiring. Her - simple stories are woven in order to give her an opportunity - to describe her characters by their own conduct in seasons of - trial."--Chicago Times. - -Sweet Content. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 -cents. - - "It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child - than to draw a lifelike man or woman: Shakespeare and Webster - were the only two men of their age who could do it with - perfect delicacy and success. Our own age is more fortunate, - on this single score at least, having a larger and far nobler - proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of - George Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite - and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to - knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, so - truthful, or so delightful as Mrs. Molesworth's."--A. C. - Swinbourne. - -Honor Bright; or, The Four-Leaved Shamrock. By the author of "Miss -Toosey's Mission." 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "It requires a special talent to describe the sayings and - doings of children, and the author of 'Honor Bright,' 'One of - a Covey,' possesses that talent in no small degree. A cheery, - sensible, and healthy tale."--The Times. - -The Cuckoo Clock. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price -75 cents. - - "A beautiful little story. It will be read with delight by - every child into whose hands it is placed.... The author - deserves all the praise that has been, is, and will be - bestowed on 'The Cuckoo Clock.' Children's stories are - plentiful, but one like this is not to be met with every - day."--Pall Mall Gazette. - -The Adventures of a Brownie. As Told to my Child. By Miss Mulock. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "The author of this delightful little book leaves it in doubt - all through whether there actually is such a creature in - existence as a Brownie, but she makes us hope that there might - be."--Chicago Standard. - -Only a Girl: A Tale of Brittany. From the French by C. A. Jones. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "We can thoroughly recommend this brightly written and homely - narrative."--Saturday Review. - -Little Rosebud; or, Things Will Take a Turn. By Beatrice Harraden. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "A most delightful little book.... Miss Harraden is so bright, - so healthy, and so natural withal that the book ought, as a - matter of duty, to be added to every girl's library in the - land."--Boston Transcript. - -Girl Neighbors; or, The Old Fashion and the New. By Sarah Tytler. -12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. - - "One of the most effective and quietly humorous of Miss - Tytler's stories. 'Girl Neighbors' is a pleasant comedy, not - so much of errors as of prejudices got rid of, very healthy, - very agreeable, and very well written."--Spectator. - -The Little Lame Prince and His Traveling Cloak. By Miss Mulock. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "No sweeter--that is the proper word--Christmas story for the - little folks could easily be found, and it is as delightful - for older readers as well. There is a moral to it which the - reader can find out for himself, if he chooses to - think."--Cleveland Herald. - -Little Miss Joy. By Emma Marshall. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 -cents. - - "A very pleasant and instructive story, told by a very - charming writer in such an attractive way as to win favor - among its young readers. The illustrations add to the beauty - of the book."--Utica Herald. - -The House that Grew. A Girl's Story. By Mrs. Molesworth. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - "This is a very pretty story of English life. Mrs. Molesworth - is one of the most popular and charming of English - story-writers for children. Her child characters are true to - life, always natural and attractive, and her stories are - wholesome and interesting."--Indianapolis Journal. - -The House of Surprises. By L. T. Meade. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, -price 75 cents. - - "A charming tale of charming children, who are naughty enough - to be interesting, and natural enough to be lovable; and very - prettily their story is told. The quaintest yet most natural - stories of child life. Simply delightful."--Vanity Fair. - -The Jolly Ten: and their Year of Stories. By Agnes Carr Sage. 12mo, -cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents. - - The story of a band of cousins who were accustomed to meet at - the "Pinery," with "Aunt Roxy." At her fireside they play - merry games, have suppers flavored with innocent fun, and - listen to stories--each with its lesson calculated to make the - ten not less jolly, but quickly responsive to the calls of - duty and to the needs of others. - -Little Miss Dorothy. The Wonderful Adventures of Two Little People. By -Martha James. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75c. - - "This is a charming little juvenile story from the pen of Mrs. - James, detailing the various adventures of a couple of young - children. Their many adventures are told in a charming manner, - and the book will please young girls and boys."--Montreal Star. - -Pen's Venture. A Story for Girls. By Elvirton Wright. 12mo, cloth, -illustrated, price 75 cents. - - Something Pen saw in the condition of the cash girls in a certain - store gave her a thought; the thought became a plan; the plan - became a venture--Pen's venture. It is amusing, touching, and - instructive to read about it. - - For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on - receipt of price by the publisher, - A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Growing Up, by Jennie M. Drinkwater - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GROWING UP *** - -***** This file should be named 42408.txt or 42408.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/4/0/42408/ - -Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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