path: root/75576-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75576 ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.


[Illustration: _Old Stanfield House.—Frontispiece._
 "Evening, Zeke," said Cassius.]



                               THE


                       OLD STANFIELD HOUSE;

                                OR,

                    THE SIN OF COVETOUSNESS.


                                BY

                       LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

                            AUTHOR OF

 "IRISH AMY," "THE FAIRCHILDS," "RHODA'S EDUCATION," ETC., ETC.


                            ——————————

 "Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world."

                            ——————————


                           PHILADELPHIA:
                   AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
                     NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
                            ——————————
          NEW YORK: NO. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
                     CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.



    ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

     Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by the

                    AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

      In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

    ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————



                              CONTENTS.

                               ——————

CHAP.

     I.—THE OLD HOUSE

    II.—SCHOOL

   III.—AUNT BETSY

    IV.—CASSIUS

     V.—CALISTA ASKS A QUESTION

    VI.—THE SECRET DRAWER

   VII.—MISS MEEKS

  VIII.—MARY

    IX.—THE STORM BREAKS

     X.—MISS DRUETT

    XI.—THE NEEDLE-CASE

   XII.—THE TRUNKS

  XIII.—THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE

   XIV.—OLD JAEL

    XV.—EVIL INFLUENCES

   XVI.—THE FAIR

  XVII.—MR. FABIAN CALLS AGAIN

 XVIII.—MISS PRISCILLA

   XIX.—MISS PRISCILLA MAKES CHANGES

    XX.—AN EXPLOSION



                       THE OLD STANFIELD HOUSE.

                               ——————

CHAPTER FIRST.

THE OLD HOUSE.

CALISTA STANFIELD stood at the gate of the old Stanfield place one
morning in the latter end of May, looking abroad over the fields.
The house stood on a little rise of ground such as in that part of
the world is dignified by the name of a hill. The foreground of the
picture on which she was looking was not very cheerful in itself, being
neither more nor less than an old family burying-ground, very full of
gravestones, and with one tall monument towering over all. Now an old
graveyard need not be a melancholy sight, provided that the grass be
kept green, the stones whole, and the enclosure free from ugly weeds.
That on which Calista was looking bore traces of utter neglect. Beyond
the graveyard spread fenced fields, some in pasture, others in the
carefully-marked squares which showed that they were meant for sweet
potatoes, or were tinted with the pale green blades of the springing
corn. Low-growing oaks, with here and there a large tree, closed is the
prospect.

Calista looked at the melancholy graveyard, and then turned and looked
at the house behind her—the old Stanfield place. The one prospect was
not more cheering than the other. The mansion had been a fine one,
built of small bricks brought from Europe, and with much ornamental
woodwork about it. It stood on a high stone basement, and had a flight
of solid gray marble steps rising from each side to a wide porch with
brick pillars, and quaint carving about the gable; but the woodwork
was gray for want of paint, and in some places falling for want of a
timely nail; the steps had sunk away, leaving a yawning chasm between
themselves and the floor of the porch; most of the shutters—solid
wooden shutters such as people affect in that part of the world—were
closed, and others hung by only one hinge. There had been a somewhat
pretentious garden at one side of the house, with ornamental
trellis-work and a summer-house once covered with climbing roses; but
the trellis leaned this way and that, the summer-house had partly
fallen in, and the beds were overgrown with grass and weeds.

When old General Stanfield was alive, nothing about the place, from
the grand house to the smallest chicken-coop, was ever suffered to get
out of repair. Then the house was filled with cheerful company from
one week's end to another. The second Mrs. Stanfield, like the first,
had only one child, a boy, who grew up mostly at home, sometimes under
the care of a tutor, sometimes running wild with rod and gun under the
charge of a man who had been his father's servant all through the war,
and who was still living in a little house which the General had built
and given him on the borders of his great estate.

By and by the young Richard went to Princeton, and managed, despite a
great deal of idleness and some foolish frolics, to scramble through
his college course without disgrace or expulsion, and even with some
degree of credit.

"Well, young Stanfield is fairly off our hands," remarked one of the
professors to the president on the evening of commencement. "I wonder
what he will turn out?"

"There are two things either of which may possibly make a man of him,"
replied the president. "And they are, to marry a sensible, energetic
woman, or to go into the army."

"Well, if marrying will save Stanfield, I am sure I hope he will
marry," said the professor; "for, much trouble as he has made me, I am
very fond of the boy."

As it happened, young Stanfield did marry and did go into the army,
yet neither of them made much of him. He went to the North on a visit,
and there married a pretty, poor girl, with no home of her own, and no
fortune save the very liberal outfit provided by the distant cousins
with whom she lived.

It had never occurred to Richard Stanfield that his father could be
seriously angry with him for anything he could do. He had been allowed
his own way, and plenty of money to carry out that way, ever since he
could remember, and if his father had ever been seriously displeased, a
little coaxing penitence from his graceful, handsome son had been all
that was needful to reconcile the indulgent father.

If Richard had taken his wife directly home, things might have turned
out very differently, for Calista was a sweet, gracious creature,
though timid and somewhat reserved.

Richard, however, was well pleased to stay where he was, and he wrote
to his father and waited for an answer, amusing himself meanwhile, as
he had done all his life, with whatever came to hand.

There was a power near the throne on which Richard had not calculated,
and which was in no wise friendly to him. Miss Priscilla Stanfield, the
General's daughter by his first wife, had at first been fond of the
pretty boy baby, and after his mother died, she had befriended him in
her fashion, till he began to interfere with the exercise of her ruling
passion. Richard loved to spend money—Miss Priscilla loved to save it;
and between the two there was a perpetual contest, sometimes open,
sometimes covert, but always more or less active. When Richard was at
home, his influence was usually uppermost with the General, who was not
very strong-minded at any time; but when Richard was away, his father
was wholly in the hands of Priscilla, who had her own ends to serve.
Priscilla persuaded her father that Richard had disgraced his family by
marrying, clandestinely, an obscure girl without family, education, or
money.

The consequence was that the General wrote a very harsh letter to his
son, forbidding him to bring home the young woman with whom he had so
disgracefully connected himself. If he chose to return without her,
he was at liberty to do so. The young woman could remain with her
friends, and a suitable allowance should be made her. If Richard chose
to comply with these terms, well and, good; if not, Mr. Settson, the
old lawyer in Cohansey, was authorized to pay to his order the sum of
three hundred dollars a year, which was all that he must expect from
his father.

"It is Priscilla's doing!" said Richard to his wife. "I see her hand
all through it. My father must be in his dotage. Does he take me for a
fool, or a villain?"

"Oh, Richard, we have done very wrong!" said poor Calista. "I never
guessed your father could take it in that way. I thought you wrote to
him. You said you would."

"Well, I meant to, but the time went on, and on the whole I thought it
as well to wait. I am sure I never guessed he would take it in such an
absurd way any more than yourself. And three hundred a year! It is just
nothing."

"I don't mind that so much," said Calista, to whose New England ideas
three hundred dollars seemed a much larger sum than it did to Richard;
"but it is so dreadful to think that your father is angry with you.
Perhaps if you were to go and see him—"

"I am not sure but it would be a good plan," said Richard,
thoughtfully. "If I could see him alone, I dare say I could bring him
round; but there is Priscilla."

"Perhaps you might, bring her round too."

"You don't know her, Calista. Priscilla used to be a pretty nice girl
when she was young, but she always loved money, and now I think she
cares for nothing else. If you had only been rich, she would have
thought it was all right."

"Still, if you were to go there," urged Calista. "I would stay here,
you know, till you came back; I might even take the school again."

"Take the school indeed! Don't let me hear of such a thing!"

The time came when Calista was only too glad to take the school again.

Richard fully intended to go home, see his father, and "make all
right," as he said; that is, get his own way, as he had done twenty
times before, by dint of coaxing. But several things happened to
prevent him. He had a slight accident while riding, which lamed him
for two or three weeks; then Calista was very unwell, and he could not
think of leaving her; and then winter set in, and he persuaded himself
it would be as well to wait till spring.

Meantime the war of 1812 broke out. The war fever ran very high in that
part of the country. Richard fell in with it, as he did with everything
that was going. He raised a company by his own exertions, and took
command of it. He was soon ordered west, and bade a tender farewell
to his wife, whom he commended, in an earnest and dutiful letter, to
his father's care and affection. At Calista's earnest request, he also
wrote a kind letter to his sister, and enclosed both in one envelope.

Whether these letters reached their destination, Richard never knew.
His company was engaged in the disastrous affair of the river Raisin,
and not a man escaped the horrible massacre which followed.

His little girl, born three months after her father's death, was
motherless as well as fatherless when she was five years old. The old
couple who had stood in the place of parents to Calista Folsom were
both dead, and her poor child, with no near friends, was left on the
hands of distant cousins, who had, or thought they had, enough to do to
take care of their own families. What was to be done?

"I am just going to write to her father's family," said Mrs. Tom
Folsom, at whose house poor Mrs. Richard Stanfield died. "I would like
to keep the child myself, for she is a dear little thing as ever I saw,
but I seem to have my hands full already."

"I suppose we might all say that," said Mrs. John Folsom. "But what is
our Christianity worth, my dear Sophronia, if it does not lead us to
the exercise of practical self-denial?"

"Self-denial—humph!" retorted Mrs. Tom. "Don't talk to me about
self-denial, Amanda. The difference in price between your winter
set-out and mine would keep the child a year."

Mrs. John kept her temper, at least so far as words were concerned.

"You forget that I had Calista on my hands for two years before she was
married," said she.

"During which time she did all the sewing and spinning of the family,
besides keeping school three terms!" retorted Mrs. Tom. "I don't think
you can lay claim to much self-denial on that score."

"Don't let us make the dear child a source of discord and contention,"
said Miss Malvina Fitch; an elderly lady who lived by herself on a
very small income, which she eked out by spinning, braiding hats, and
other means. "Let Sophronia write to poor dear Richard's family, as she
proposed, and if nothing comes of it, we will see what can be done."

"If nothing comes of it, the child will have to come on the town for
support, so far as I see," said Mrs. John, decidedly.

"She won't do that while I have a roof over my head and half a loaf
to share with her," said old Miss Malvina, with more warmth than was
common with her. "Dear Calista's child shall never be a town charge if
I can help it."

"Well, you needn't flare out so!" said Mrs. John. "I only mentioned it."

"Yes, and you ought to blush even to mention such a thing!" said Mrs.
Tom. "Poor as I am, with my sick husband and helpless boy, I would work
my fingers to the bone before it should happen. Our own relation, and a
soldier's child besides, and you sit there in your satin and fine cloth
and talk of sending her to the poor-house."

"Oh, very well, manage the matter your own way," said Mrs. John, rising
with a lofty air of composure. "I wash my hands of the whole matter; so
don't expect anything from me."

"As though any one did expect anything of you," said Mrs. Tom, as she
closed the door, not very gently, after her. "Well, then, I'll write to
this General Stanfield; though I haven't much hope of anything coming
of it; and in the meantime—"

"In the meantime I will keep Calista," said Miss Malvina. "There is no
one at my house to be disturbed by her noise, and what is enough for
one must stretch for two."

"Oh, I'll help you all I can, and so I am sure will Samuel; and I dare
say John too, if he can do it without his wife's knowledge. I shall be
very glad if you can have her with you, for it is bad for the child's
disposition to be hushed up every minute, and poor Tom can't bear a bit
of noise when his bad spells are on."

The letter was written and sent, and it seemed for a time as if nothing
was likely to come of it. Calista staid with Miss Malvina all winter,
learning to read and sew, and sharing the old lady's simple fare, eked
out by contributions from the cousins, and a sly dollar bill now and
then from Cousin John. When the child looked back on this winter from
her after life, it seemed to her that no fires were ever so bright and
warm as Miss Malvina's; no bread so sweet and so thickly buttered;
no, cake so delicious as the Sunday's treat of gingerbread, and that
Indian loaf (unknown, alas! to this generation) which came hot, red
and glutinous from the oven where it had staid simmering ever since
the Saturday before. In truth, the seasoning which made all Miss
Malvina's plain and economical cooking so grateful—the genuine love and
generosity—came to be sadly wanting afterward.

With the spring, however, came a change. A middle-aged gentlewoman
appeared one day in the little town, charged with letters and
credentials from Miss Priscilla Stanfield, daughter and sole heir of
General Stanfield, of Cohansey, and empowered to take possession of the
child Calista Stanfield, and carry her home to her aunt. It appeared
from the letters brought by Miss Druett that she was the companion and
confidential friend of Miss Stanfield.

"Then General Stanfield did not leave his son's wife anything?" said
Mrs. Tom.

"Nothing whatever," answered Miss Druett, concisely.

"Nor to the child?"

"I do not know that he was even aware of the child's existence," said
Miss Druett.

"Somebody was very much to blame if he was not!" said sharp-spoken Mrs.
Tom. "For Calista wrote to him and to Miss Priscilla when the child was
born. I know, because I posted the letters myself."

"The mails are somewhat uncertain," said Miss Druett; "but however
that may be, the General's whole property was left to his daughter
Priscilla. Miss Stanfield wishes it understood that she does not allow
the child to have any claim on her. She is willing to take her and give
her an education befitting her father's family, but it is entirely an
act of charity on her part."

"I would not let the child go if things were different with me," said
Miss Malvina to Mrs. Tom when the matter was talked over afterward;
"but I know I have not many months to live, and if this Miss Stanfield
gives Calista such an education as she promises, the girl can earn her
own living."

"And Calista may come into all the property at last; who knows?"

"She most probably will," said Mrs. John, who was assisting at the
conference. "But what are you going to do with her mother's things,
Malvina? There are all the handsome dresses and other clothes that
Father and Mother Folsom bought for her, and the presents her husband
made to her afterward. They must be as good as new. What are you going
to do with them?"

"That matter is already settled," said Miss Malvina, calmly. "I have
turned the trunks which held poor Calista's wardrobe and other property
over to Miss Druett for the use of the child. Sophronia and I looked
them over, and repacked them with abundance of cedar and black pepper,
and locked them up again. Of course they belong to the child; and as
Miss Stanfield assumes the care and education of the orphan, she is the
fit custodian of all that appertains to her in right of her deceased
parent."

And Miss Malvina was a little soothed, in the midst of her grief, by
thinking how neatly she had turned her long sentence.

"Oh!" said Mrs. John, significantly, and rising at the same time. "I
am sure the child is quite welcome to all that is left of her poor
mother's things. At the same time, I must say I think I might have been
consulted, if only for form's sake."

"You forget that you said you washed your hands of the whole concern,"
said Mrs. Tom.

"Oh, very well. I don't grudge you anything you have made of the
transaction. Good-morning." And Mrs. John sailed away, resolved to
keep a sharp look-out on Mrs. Tom's "go to meeting" clothes, so as to
challenge any article of Calista's wardrobe on its first appearance.
She was disappointed, however.

Mrs. Tom's temper was sharpened as well as her wits by hard encounters
with adverse fortune, but, poor as she was, she would have scorned to
enrich herself at the expense of an orphan child. As to Miss Malvina,
she was so near heaven already that the richest things on earth and the
poorest looked equally small in her eyes.


To the little Calista, the parting with her kind old guardian and
the long journey seemed like a dreary dream, from which she woke to
find herself an inmate of the old Stanfield house, creeping about by
herself, with no mates but the animals in the farmyard, slighted and
snubbed by her aunt, treated with a sort of surly kindness by Miss
Druett, her aunt's companion and confidante, and sometimes petted and
sometimes scolded by the two old servants whom Miss Stanfield still
retained.

Sometimes it seemed to her that her present life was a dream, and that
she should wake up to find herself in Miss Malvina's little bed-room,
under that red-and-white coverlet wrought in gorgeous patterns of
long-tailed birds pecking at berries, which she used to follow out
with her little fingers. Sometimes the past grew dream-like, and she
thought she must always have lived is the old house, saying lessons
to Miss Druett and watching the two elderly ladies playing endless
games—cribbage one evening, backgammon the next—or slipping out to the
kitchen, when, if Chloe were in a good humor, she would contrive some
kind of treat for the child, and tell her stories of the past glories
of the family, and of her handsome father when he was a boy.


Under such influences Calista had grown up to the age of fifteen. About
that time she left off saying her lessons to Miss Druett, and began
going to an old-fashioned ladies' school in Cohansey, the chief town in
the neighborhood. In pleasant weather she walked; when it was wet or
stormy, she rode an elderly white pony named Jeff, or sometimes drove
him in a little old chaise which Miss Priscilla had taken on a debt.

Calista believed she owed this change to Miss Druett, and was grateful
to that lady accordingly. She liked her school and her lessons, she was
friendly with the girls, and she had made one intimate friend in the
person of Mary Settson. Then, too, she had now and then an errand to
do for her aunt, and she often had a kind word and sometimes a little
present from old Mr. Settson, the lawyer, who had had charge of General
Stanfield's business, and took an interest in poor Richard's child.



CHAPTER SECOND.

SCHOOL.

CALISTA had not been religiously brought up. True, she attended church
once every Sunday with Miss Druett, sitting in the family pew in the
old brick church in Cohansey. At home the subject was never even
mentioned. Miss Priscilla never went to church, never read the Bible or
had family prayers, or asked a blessing at table, or acknowledged God
in any of her ways.

Calista had found a ragged old Bible among some waste papers in the
garret, and sometimes read it for the stories when she was tired
of "Evelina" and the few odd volumes of "Camilla" and "Sir Charles
Grandison" of which she had become possessed in the same way. These
readings, the Sunday services, the prayers in school, and some faint
remembrance of Miss Malvina's teaching, kept the girl from utter
heathenism. Of personal religion, of any obligation on her own part to
a God or a Saviour, it is hardly an exaggeration to say Calista had no
more notion than her old white pony.

She had a kind of attachment to Miss Druett, tempered by a good deal
of fear. She had begun by dreading Aunt Priscilla, and ended, I fear,
by hating her; but she was not naturally unamiable, and, as Miss
McPherson, the schoolmistress, observed, she had the making or marring
of a fine woman in her.

"Calista!" called a somewhat harsh yet not altogether unpleasant voice,
with then a musical ring in it as of some neglected instrument. Then in
a moment—"Calista, do you mean to stand dreaming there all day? It is
time you were getting ready for school."

"Yes, Miss Druett," replied Calista, promptly; "I am all ready, and
there is plenty of time. Where are you going?" she asked, in surprise,
as Miss Druett appeared in the door with her bonnet on.

"I am going to drive into town with you, so don't keep me waiting,
child."

Calista skipped lightly up the ruined steps, which looked dangerous for
anything heavier than a goat to climb. As she reached the broad flat
stone at the top, it tilted a little under her tread.

"Take care!" said Miss Druett.

"That stone will fall with somebody one of these days," said Calista.
"Why doesn't Aunt Priscilla have it mended?"

"Little girls shouldn't ask questions," replied Miss Druett.

"I am not a little girl any longer!" said Calista, her color rising a
little. "I wish I were, and then my frocks would not all be so outgrown
that I am ashamed of them."

Miss Druett deigned no answer to this remark, but Calista was used to
having her remarks remain unanswered. She hastened away, and presently
returned equipped in her school bonnet of gray batist a good deal
the worse for wear, and carrying in one hand her school books and in
the other a work-bag—every one carried a work-bag in those days—with
the ends of knitting needles sticking out. It would be hard to find
a handsomer girl in all Cohansey than Calista Stanfield, but she
certainly owed very little to her dress.

"Where is Aunt Priscilla?" asked Calista, as she took her place in the
queer shaky little chaise where Miss Druett was already sitting.

"In her room," was the reply. "She is out of sorts this morning, or she
would have gone to town herself."

Calista said no more till they were out of sight of the house. Then she
began again.

"Miss Druett, I do wish I could have some new frocks this spring. My
best frock, that blue bombazette, is ever so much too short, and mended
in three or four places. I declare I am ashamed to be seen; there is
not a servant girl in Cohansey who goes as shabby as I do."

Miss Druett seemed to be fully occupied in driving a fly off the pony's
back, and did not answer a word.

"Then my Sunday bonnet is a perfect fright. It is three years old,
and not the least like what any one else wears. And it is just so in
everything," continued Calista, with growing heat as she recounted her
wrongs. "I can never have a bit of pretty work like the other girls, or
have a bit of pocket-money, or any privileges as the rest do. I think
it is too bad."

"What do you expect me to do about it?" asked Miss Druett.

"If aunt were as poor as Miss Malvina used to be, and had to work for
a living, I would never say a word," continued Calista. "I would work
hard, too, and earn my own clothes; but when she is so rich and laying
up money all the time, I do think it is a very hard case."

"How do you know your aunt is laying up money all the time?"

"Because it is always coming in and never going out," was the prompt
reply. "Don't you think I have eyes and ears, Miss Druett? Don't I know
that she gets the rents for her buildings in Philadelphia and Cohansey,
and for the farms she lets out, and the butter and hay, and so on? What
becomes of all that, if she does not lay it up?"

"You had better ask her," rejoined Miss Druett. "And if you think the
servant girls are so much better off than yourself, you had better try
living out, and see how you like it."

Calista's eyes flashed. "I declare I will!" said she, with sudden fire
and emphasis. "I will go to Mr. Settson this very day and ask him to
find me a place where I can work for my board and enough to clothe me.
At least I should have enough to eat, and not be taunted and insulted
every hour as I am now."

Miss Druett turned her head and looked at Calista, who met the gaze
without flinching. She seemed to think matters had gone far enough.

"Come, come, don't let me hear any such nonsense as that!" said she.
"If I should tell Priscilla she would turn you out of the house, and
never let you into it again."

"Let her!" returned Calista. "I haven't had such very nice times there
that I should regret it very much."

"Suppose your aunt had never taken you at all, do you know where you
would have been? You would have gone to the poor-house."

"Well, suppose I had, what worse should I have been? I should have had
enough to eat and something to wear, and what more do I have now?"

"You have your school for one thing."

"Yes, I know I do, thanks to you. You are good to me—sometimes."

Miss Druett smiled in a curious, sudden fashion, with flash of white
teeth and a light in her dark gray eyes under black brows and lashes,
which gave quite a new aspect to her face.

"Then if I am good to you—sometimes—have a little patience for the sake
of those times," said she. "Don't you think I would do more for you if
I could? As for the frocks, I know you need them, and I will see what
I can bring to pass; but don't you say a word about them to your aunt.
She is in one of her bad moods to-day. Here we are, I declare. Where
will you stop?"

"Oh, at the school-house. I suppose I must walk home. I don't mind
though; it will be cool and pleasant after five o'clock."

It wanted half an hour of school time, but Calista found Miss
McPherson's school-room filled with girls all talking together, as it
seemed. As she entered somebody said, laughing,—

"Catch her giving anything. You might as well ask old Miss Stanfield
herself."

"Hush," said two or three voices, and Calista felt sure they had been
talking of her.

"Here is Calista," said one of the girls. "How early you are! Did you
walk?"

"No, I rode in with Miss Druett. What are you all talking about?"

"Oh, about this new plan for furnishing the parsonage house. Haven't
you heard?"

"Not a word. How should I?"

"Of course she hasn't," said Belle Adair. "Well, you know Mr. and Mrs.
Lee lost all their furniture when the old parsonage was burned."

"Yes, of course. Every one knows that."

"Well, the ladies of the congregation are going to furnish the new
parsonage from top to bottom with linen and everything needful, and
the young ladies—Miss Jessy McPherson and Miss Alice Settson and that
set—are going to hold a fair to buy some of the bed-room furniture."

"A fair!" repeated Calista. "What kind of a fair? I don't know what you
mean."

"Why, a kind of sale, like the one Miss Jessy attended in Philadelphia,
for the orphans. Don't you remember that she told us about it?"

"Oh, yes! Well, what then?"

"Well, the young ladies are going to have one, and they have asked us
school-girls to make things for one of the tables. Miss Jessy is to
have it in charge, and two or three of us are to help her. And we are
to make all sorts of pretty and useful things for sale, and find the
materials ourselves. And I know what I am going to make, but I don't
mean to tell anybody—not yet."

All this explanation Belle delivered with great animation and a vast
amount of gesticulation, as her fashion was.

"You will have to tell, if we meet together for work," observed one of
the girls. "And you know that was what we proposed—to meet with Miss
Jessy, Wednesday afternoon of each week."

"To be sure, so we did. I did not think of that, but it don't matter."

"I think the meeting will be half the fun, don't you, Calista?" said
little Emma Adair, Belle's cousin.

But Calista was looking for something in her desk, and did not answer.

"I think it is very nice—all of it—only I don't see how I am to do
anything, because I have no money," said Theresa Diaments. "Somehow my
allowance is always gone before I know it."

"Because you spend it all," returned her cousin, Antoinette, who roomed
with her. "You never go out without buying something—pins, or thread,
or pencils. You buy ten bunches of hairpins to my one."

"Oh, yes! I dare say," remarked Belle, sarcastically enough. "We all
know how economical you are. Perhaps if you bought more pins, poor
Tessy would not need to buy so many."

Antoinette colored deeply, and cast anything but an amiable glance at
the last speaker.

"What will you do, Calista?" asked Belle.

"How can I tell?" returned Calista. "I don't half understand the matter
yet. You are always in such a hurry, Belle. Where is Mary Settson?"

"Here she comes,—

   "'Sober, steadfast and demure,'—

"As usual," said Belle. "What are you going to make for the fair, Mary?"

"I haven't said I was going to make anything," replied Mary, looking
annoyed, for she was not pleased with Belle's quotation. "Come out a
minute, Calista; I want to tell you something. Oh, here comes Miss
McPherson to open school! Girls, what are you about? Don't you see?"

All the girls rose—some of them in a little confusion—to greet
their schoolmistress. Miss McPherson was a tall Scotch lady, with
silvery-white hair put up under a matronly sort of lace cap, bright
eyes, and a somewhat commanding presence. She was handsomely dressed,
as usual, in her rich black silk and white muslin handkerchief, with a
large gold watch in her belt, to which were attached a bunch of seals
and a thick gold chain of Indian workmanship. This was her invariable
costume, except that in winter she wore a soft gray shawl. She was
followed by her niece, Miss Jessy McPherson, a slim lady, not quite so
young as she had been, but still pretty and blooming, and dressed with
much more regard to the fashion than her aunt. Another teacher entered
by the opposite door, and the three took their places on the platform
at one end of the room. Miss Jessy read part of a chapter in the New
Testament, Miss McPherson made a short prayer, and then the lessons
were begun.

Miss McPherson had been educated at one of the best schools in
Edinburgh, and finished at a Scotch convent in Paris. She had come
to America with her father at the close of the revolution. Captain
McPherson sold out his commission in the army and bought land in New
Jersey, hoping to make an estate for his daughter; but his farming was
not very successful, and he soon died. Miss McPherson, as soon as the
first desolation of her loss was over, began to look about her to see
what she was to do.

She was not long in deciding. She sold the land which she could not
cultivate, bought a house in the growing town of Cohansey, and set up
a ladies' school. She taught French and Italian thoroughly—though, it
must be owned, with something of a Scotch accent—needle work, plain
and ornamental, flower work, feather work, and numberless other works.
She also taught the then popular art of reading, writing and spelling
the English language correctly by the aid of Mr. Lindley Murray's
"Grammar," * and some geography and history by the aid of Mr. Pinnock's
"Catechisms." She also taught—and that without extra charge—very
excellent manners and sound religion and morality, so that her school
might be considered a good one, though metaphysics formed no part of
its course, and even such an elementary and old-fashioned book as "Mrs.
B.'s Conversations on Chemistry" had never entered its walls.

   * I have seen an old school prospectus in which was advertised "The
English grammar taught by Mr. Lindley Murray's new method, with three
cases only."

Miss McPherson prospered, or, as she would have preferred to say, "was
prospered," from the first. She was soon enabled to enlarge her house,
take a few boarders, and send for her orphan niece, Miss Jessy, who was
earning a hard living as a governess in the north of England.

At the time of which I am writing, Miss McPherson had twelve young lady
boarders and twenty-five day scholars, and was believed to be a rich
woman. She was greatly respected in the community, and was one of the
first persons consulted in any charitable or social enterprise. She
subscribed liberally to the church, where her young ladies occupied
three pews all to themselves. She had been one of the first to propose
the building of the new parsonage house, and had given a good sum
towards it; and she was indeed a very important person in Cohansey
society.

When the lessons were through, she tapped on her desk for attention.

"Now, young ladies, I want you to listen to me!" said she, in her
clear, round tones. "Maria Reese, where are your hands and feet?"

Maria's hands and feet had a way of being in the wrong place, and on
this occasion the hands were behind her back, and one foot was twisted
round the leg of her chair. Blushing scarlet, she laid her hands in her
lap, straightened up her shoulders, and drew in her chin.

"That is much better!" said Miss McPherson. She cast a vigilant eye
over the room, and, seeing nothing more to criticise, proceeded with
her remarks.

"No doubt you have all been discussing this plan of a fair or sale to
help in furnishing the house of our respected minister."

She paused a moment, and Clarissa Whitecar, as the oldest girl,
answered for the rest,—

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well. I cannot say," continued Miss McPherson, "that the scheme
is one which I should have proposed myself. I prefer more direct ways
of accomplishing good works. However, I am aware that something is
to be said on the other side. Such a method as the present promotes
sociability, and it also affords an opportunity for those have not much
money to bestow, to give their time and their work,—it makes room for
self-denial, without which no good work is ever accomplished, and also
for the exercise of latent neatness and ingenuity. I have considered
the matter, and have also consulted with some of the respected parents
and guardians of my pupils," continued Miss McPherson, after another
little pause; "and I have come to the conclusion—Charity Latch, are you
a lady or a pincushion?"

The young person thus addressed, a tall, overgrown-looking girl,
started violently, and hastily removed from her mouth the brass pin
with which she was furtively picking her teeth. Charity was one of
those people who never see any deficiency in themselves, and therefore
never improve.

"I said that I have come to the conclusion to allow the young ladies to
devote the hours of afternoon school on Wednesday to working for this
object, under certain rules and restrictions, which must be remembered,
as I shall allow no departure from them.

   "First. Every young lady must provide her own working implements.

   "Second. Every piece of work must be commenced subject to the approval
of myself or Miss Jessy, who will preside in my absence.

   "Third. Every piece of work once commenced must be perfectly finished
before anything else is begun. This rule is invariable.

   "Fourth. Any young lady must be ready to do her work over again,
cheerfully and without complaint, if Miss Jessy or myself thinks it
needful.

   "Fifth. There must be no borrowing from one another without special
consent of your teacher for the time being.

"These are all the rules I see fit to make, though I shall not hesitate
to add others if I see occasion; but I wish to add a word of advice.
Remember that in such a work as this, and done, as this ought to be,
for the praise and glory of God, there is no place for anything like
emulation or vainglory. Let each do the best she can in whatever she
undertakes, and remember that the smallest and cheapest offering given
in the right spirit is as acceptable as the most elaborate and costly
in the eyes of Him for whom this work is, or should be, done."

Miss McPherson said these words with great earnestness, and smiled as
she saw their effect in the suddenly raised eyes and brightened face of
a plain and rather poorly-dressed girl who sat near the desk.

"And now the young ladies may take a recess,—" recess she called it, in
her Scotch way,—"unless they have any questions to ask."

"If you please, Miss McPherson," said Mary Settson, rising—

"Well, Mary—take time now and consider your words."

"Suppose one of us wishes to make something for the furnishing of the
house instead of something for the sale, can we do so?"

"Can she do so?" corrected the schoolmistress. "Let your pronouns
agree with their antecedents, my love. Yes, certainly, there can be no
objection to that."

"Do you think it would be better to make fancy articles or useful
things?" asked another girl.

"I should say a judicious mixture would be best, and in any case it
would be well to avoid making your articles too costly. You can settle
all these matters in your first meeting, which will take place on
Wednesday at the usual time of afternoon school. I must add one thing:
If I find these meetings are having an unfavorable effect on your
lessons, or tending to produce heart-burning, envy, or unkindness, I
shall stop the whole thing at once. You can now take your recess, which
will be ten minutes longer than usual."



CHAPTER THIRD.

AUNT BETSY.

THE girls were soon in the spacious play-ground, but to-day neither
skipping-rope nor battle-door had attractions for any but the younger
children. Every tongue was busy with the new plan, which was talked
over in all its bearings. Pincushions and needle work, satin stitch and
cross stitch, rug work, cut work, flowers, veils, ruffles, knitting,
and netting, all were discussed at once.

"I shall work a piece," said Antoinette, with decision. "I saw a lovely
one at my cousin's, in Greenwich—a shepherdess, with her crook, and
some sheep and lambs, with their wool all done in French knots with
white chenille and gray floss. The shepherdess has on a blue silk gown
with real gold spangles. Oh, it is lovely!"

"Yes, and so sweetly natural—a blue silk spangled gown to tend sheep
in!" said Belle Adair. "I wonder they did not spangle the sheep too: it
would have been about as sensible."

"Just as if that had anything to do with it!" rejoined Antoinette,
scornfully. "Any how, I am going to do it—if Miss Jessy will let me, I
mean."

"But that will take so long, and be so expensive," remarked Tessy; "and
if it should not sell after all, you will lose your labor."

"No, I sha'n't, because I should have the picture anyhow, and as for
money, I have all my last quarter's allowance."

"Then you can pay me the three shillings you borrowed of me the last
time the peddler was here," said Tessy. "I want some money, and I
haven't a bit."

"I haven't any change," returned Antoinette, "and I don't want to break
a bill for such a little thing as that."

"You never do have any change, do you, Antoinette?" asked Belle Adair,
innocently. Then, as Antoinette did not answer: "If I were you, Tessy,
I wouldn't have any change either."

"Well, she does get all my change away," said poor Tessy, half crying,
as Antoinette walked away. "She is always saying, 'Oh, Tessy, just lend
me a penny,' or 'Just let me have a sixpence, will you?' But if I ask
her for anything, she never has it. It is just so with other things.
She uses my pins, and needles, and hairpins, so that half the time I
don't have any for myself, and then Miss Meeks scolds me, and says,
'Look at Antoinette, she is never unprovided.' Good reason why she
isn't."

"You must just learn to say no," said Belle Adair.

"But it seems so mean to refuse such little things."

"It is not so mean to refuse as it is to be sponging for little
things," returned Belle, with some justice; "and that is what
Antoinette is always doing. The other day, when she began her bead
chain, she came to me to know if I had any thread. I told her I had,
but did not offer to lend her any. Then she asked me for it straight
out, and I told her I wanted my thread myself, and that Miss Jessy had
plenty."

"But you gave me a whole nice skein that very day," observed little
Emma.

"Yes, because I knew you would pay me, and I did not want you to get
into disgrace for forgetting. You are not a sponge, though you are a
heedless little puss, and want your ears pinched every day," and Belle
suited the action to the word by administering a gentle pinch to the
little rosy ear.

"If she would only ask, I wouldn't care so much," said Tessy, "but she
just helps herself to anything of mine she wants."

"Well, I know what I would do if I were you," said Emma. "I wouldn't
have any money."

"What do you mean, Emma?" asked Tessy.

"Why, Miss McPherson gives you your allowance every month, doesn't she?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, I would ask her to keep it for me, and just go to her when I
wanted any money to use. Then when Antoinette wants to borrow, you can
tell her the truth, that you haven't any. Besides, you won't be nearly
so apt to spend money if you have to ask Miss McPherson every time; and
you know, Tessy, you are rather extravagant," concluded Emma, with a
quaint little air of wisdom.

"But perhaps Miss McPherson won't want to be troubled," objected Tessy.

"She won't mind, if you tell her the reason why. Of course you need not
mention Antoinette, but you can just say that you know you are apt to
throw away your money, and you want to save it for a special purpose."

"What a wise young woman—'a Daniel come to judgment!'" said Belle, who
had been reading Shakespeare.

"But really, Tessy, I think this plan an excellent one. Antoinette
should not be indulged in such ways, if only for her own sake. If she
were poor, it would be different, but I imagine her father is quite as
rich as yours."

"Yes, indeed. Well, Emma, I believe I will try this plan of yours. But
what shall I do in the mean time? I thought I would knit some curtains,
but I haven't even money to buy the cotton."

"You say Antoinette owes you three shillings?"

"She owes me four and sixpence in all."

"Trust to me, Tessy. I'll get it out of her. She is a little too bad."

Meantime Calista and her friend, Mary Settson, were walking up and down
under the trees at one side of the play-ground. Calista's black brows
were frowning, and she looked vexed and mortified.

"I wish I had never come to school at all," said she, vehemently.
"Something is always coming up to make we feel what a miserable,
dependent wretch I am."

"Don't use such words, Calista," said Mary.

"They are true words, and why shouldn't I use them?"

"But don't you believe your aunt will let you do anything? I should
think she would give you a little money if you ask her in the right
time and way."

"Much you know about it. I tell you, Mary, I might just as well expect
gold to rain down out of that cloud. The cloud will give me a wetting
when I go home, and Aunt Priscilla will give me a scolding, and that is
all I shall get from either of them."

"Oh, I forgot," said Mary. "Papa asked Miss Druett to let you stay all
night with us, and she said you might. So we will have a good time, and
I will teach you to knit the feather stitch that Miss Jessy showed me."

Calista's frown relaxed a little. "Your father is very kind, I am sure;
but, Mary, I declare I am ashamed to go."

"Why?"

"My frock is so shabby for one thing, and you and Miss Alice are always
so neat."

"Nonsense!"

"And besides, you are always inviting me, and I never can ask you."

"Nonsense!" said Mary again. "Just as if we did not know how things
were. I am glad, because I think perhaps papa will contrive some way to
help us out of this scrape."

Calista shook her head. "You don't know Aunt Priscilla as I do. Why,
Mary, grandfather's monument is actually falling down for want of a
little money laid out in repairs. I haven't much reason to be obliged
to General Stanfield," continued Calista, rather as if thinking aloud,
"but I believe the very first thing I do when I have the place will be
to put that graveyard in order."

Mary looked annoyed in her turn.

"I would not think so much about that if I were you, Calista," said
she. "You are not sure that the place will ever be yours. Miss
Priscilla can leave it to whom she pleases, you know."

"What would you think about it if you were in my place?" demanded
Calista, rather fiercely. "Come, Mary, tell me something agreeable in
my affairs to think about."

"Well, here is the school and Miss McPherson."

"Miss McPherson is just as good and kind as she can be," admitted
Calista, "and the school is pleasant, and I like my lessons; but even
here Aunt Priscilla annoys me all the time. Something is forever coming
up to remind me how dependent and helpless I am. Aunt Priscilla won't
let me have a bit of fancy work, or take music lessons, or have a penny
to spend on any of the girls' little frolics."

"Was that the reason you did not go to the gipsy party?"

"Of course it was. I had nothing to carry."

"But, Calista, you know—"

"Oh, yes, I know. Miss Alice would have made something for me, but I
wouldn't have that. I may be a pauper, but I won't be a beggar and a
sponge like—some folks," casting a glance, as she spoke, at Antoinette,
who was passing.

"Well, any how, Calista, you can make the most of what lessons you
have, and when you are a little older you can find a place as teacher
somewhere and support yourself. And, besides," said Mary, lowering
her voice a little, "you might have something else if you would. You
might be looking forward to an inheritance that would never fade nor
disappoint you."

Calista made an impatient movement.

"So you say, and I believe you really think so, but all that is nothing
to me. It has no reality in it to my mind. Aunt Priscilla does not
believe in any such thing. She believes in the French philosophers, and
Voltaire and Rousseau are about the only authors she reads."

"And you have a great respect for Miss Priscilla's opinion, of course,"
returned Mary, with a little touch of sarcasm. "It is quite natural you
should be governed by it."

Calista laughed. "It would be a reason for thinking the other way if I
wanted one, which I don't. But somehow religion has no reality for me.
I wouldn't have Miss McPherson hear me say so, but it is no more real
to me than the Greek mythology in Magnall's questions."

"I suppose that is the way with a good many people, if they had the
honesty to own it," remarked Mary, thoughtfully; "at least to judge by
their actions. But now tell me, Calista, are not all your best friends
Christians? I have often heard you speak of Miss Malvina; was not she a
Christian?"

"Yes, indeed she was, dear old soul!"

"And is not Miss McPherson one, and Miss Jessy, and my father, and
Alice?"

"Very true, my dear, not to mention yourself. As to Miss Druett, if any
one can tell what she is, they must be wiser than I am."

"Miss Druett is good to you, isn't she?"

"Yes, in a kind of way. She is so sharp and sarcastic that she puts
me in a rage ten times a week; but everything good that I get comes
through her."

"Well, wouldn't she do something for you in this matter?"

"Very likely she would if she could, but she can't. I told her this
morning that I wanted some new frocks, and she said she would get me
some if possible, but that I must not speak to Aunt Priscilla about it.
I tell you, Mary, you have no idea what she is in one of her bad moods.
It is like living with a wild animal or an evil spirit."

"The more reason why you should qualify yourself to earn your own
living as soon as possible. But there is the bell. By the way, will you
go to Aunt Hannah's with me after school? I have to carry her a message
about the towels she is weaving for Alice."


Aunt Hannah Parvin and her sister, Aunt Betsy, lived in a curious old
wooden house on the outskirts of the town.

"Come in, come in," said Aunt Betsy. "I suppose, Mary, thee has come
about the yarn; and who is this with thee? I ought to know her, but I
can't call her by name."

"Surely it is Richard Stanfield's daughter," said Aunt Hannah,
appearing at the door. "I never saw a greater likeness between a father
and child. Come in, children. I have been expecting thee, Mary."

Aunt Hannah, though the younger of the two old ladies, was much the
most staid and precise in her appearance. Her plain gray gown, made in
the simplest fashion, was without a wrinkle; her muslin handkerchief
and close cap white as snow. She was very pretty with the exquisite
delicacy of complexion which "Friends" are so apt to possess and
preserve—thanks to their shady, sensible headgear. Her hair, with still
a golden shine in it here and there, lay in satin-like bands over her
serene forehead, and her large gray eyes looked like the very abode of
peace.

Aunt Betsy's hair, on the contrary, would wave, and crinkle, and break
away into rebellious little curls round her face and under her cap; her
dress, though spotlessly clean, was worn with quite a different air
from her sister's, and her complexion showed traces of free exposure to
the sun.

"Sister Betsy, how thee is burned with the sun!" said Aunt Hannah, in a
tone of mild reproof. "Why won't thee keep thy sunbonnet on?"

"Because I can't see as well with it, Sister Hannah, and, besides, I
like to feel the sun. What does it matter for an old woman like me?"

Aunt Hannah sighed gently. "Well, Betsy, thee will always be thyself to
the end."

"Would thee want me to be any one else, Hannah?"

Aunt Hannah smiled, and turned to the girls.

"I suppose, Mary, thee has come about the towels. Has Alice decided
upon the pattern?"

"No, Aunt Hannah; she told me to say she would leave it to you, and
then she should be sure to like it."

"Very well. I will bring down all my patterns for you both to look at,
and meantime my sister will find you some refreshments."

"To be sure," said the elder lady. "I had a notion thee would come
to-day, Mary, and so I baked a sweet-potato pie and some gingerbread.
Just sit down and take your bonnets off. Oh, yes, of course you will
stay to tea. Alice won't mind, Mary. She knows I always keep thee to
tea."

The girls suffered themselves to be persuaded, and laying aside their
bonnets, they sat down by the open window, while Aunt Betsy set her
table and brought out her beautiful old china—a set of thin "blue and
white," which would set any modern "Ceramical Club" into a fever of
rapture.

"What pretty china!" said Calista, admiring the egg-shell cups and the
sugar-basin with its gilt pineapples.

"Why, thy folks have some just like it, or ought to have," said
Aunt Betsy. "I remember thy mother—I mean thy grandmother—bought a
set in Philadelphia the very day I bought this. Dear, dear! What a
pretty creature she was, and how the old General doted on her and her
curly-headed boy! Poor Richard!"

"You knew my father then," said Calista, much interested.

"Oh, yes. I knew all thy family. Thy grandma used often to come and
see me and bring thy father, when he was a little boy. She had him in
very good order too, but after she was gone, thy grandfather never
controlled him. Hannah often used to tell the old gentleman he was
wrong to indulge the child so. I well remember the very last time the
General was here. He had stopped one day some weeks before and spoken
about Richard, how he had disappointed him; and says Hannah—thee sees
she is never afraid to say what she thinks right—says she,—

"'Richard Stanfield, is thee going to cast off thy son because he is
what thy indulgence has made him? Where is the justice of that?'

"'There is something in what you say, Hannah,' said he. 'I'll just
think it over.'

"Some three or four weeks after, he was just coming home from a
journey, and he stopped again, and says he,—

"'Well, Hannah, I have done justice to poor Dick, I think. I have
altered my will, and left the old place to him, and to his children if
he has any.'"

"Then grandfather did leave the place to my father after all!" said
Calista, her eyes flashing and her color changing, as it was apt to do
under any excitement.

"He certainly said so—I am quite sure of that," said Aunt Betsy. "I
suppose he must have altered his will again, or Miss Priscilla would
not have come into everything. Sometimes I have thought maybe she only
has the care of the place till thee comes of age. Thee never heard thy
father say anything about it I suppose, Mary?"

"No," replied Mary. "Only he said once, he hoped Calista would make the
most of her schooling, so as to be independent by and by."

"Yes, but that might have meant that he wished her to be able to look
after her own property," argued Aunt Betsy. "I suppose Priscilla never
tells thee anything about it, Calista."

"Not she!" answered Calista. "She never speaks to me at all if she can
help it."

"Priscilla is peculiar—she always was; but no doubt she means to do
right, though she always did sit too close to the world," observed
Aunt Hannah, who had come down just in time to hear the end of the
conversation; "she was very closely and strictly kept by her mother,
and I suppose she thinks it is the best way."

"I was telling Calista about what her grandfather said the last time he
was here," observed Aunt Betsy, as she set a jug of rich cream on the
table.

"I wouldn't think too much about it, Calista," said Aunt Hannah,
looking a little annoyed.

"But grandfather did say that—I mean, that he had given the old place
to my father and his children?" asked Calista.

"Oh, yes, there is no doubt of that; but I suspect he altered matters
afterwards."

"He hadn't much time to alter them, for he died in a few days," said
Aunt Betsy. "I remember it well. I went out that very afternoon wetting
down some linen I had bleaching on the grass, when I saw Cassius, your
grandfather's servant, riding by as hard as he could go on the old gray.

"'Anything the matter, Cassius?' says I.

"'Yes,' says he, 'the old gentleman's taken very bad. I believe myself
he's dead!' says he, and the tears rolled down his black face, for he
was very fond of his master; 'but, anyhow, I'm going for the doctor.'

"Presently I saw old Doctor Elsmore riding by, and the next thing I
heard the old gentleman was dead, sure enough. Don't thee remember,
Hannah? Thee said,—

"'Well, I am glad I freed my mind to him, anyhow.'"

"I remember," said Hannah.

"Was that before I was born?" asked Calista.

"Oh, no. Thee must have been—let's see. How old is thee now?"

"I shall be sixteen in July."

"Then thee must have been about four years old when thy grandfather
died."

"We won't talk about it any more," said Aunt Hannah, interposing with a
glance of gentle authority at her sister. "Doubtless it was all ordered
for the best."

"I just want to ask one question," said Calista. "What became of
Cassius? Is he dead?"

"Oh no. I saw him last week. He was a careful fellow, and had saved
money, and after his master's death, he bought quite a piece of new
land on the river road, near the house thy grandfather gave him. Thee
must have seen the place—a low, broad house, with a very large thorny
acacia growing over it."

"I have never been over that road," said Calista.

"No! Well, I wonder at that! It is a very little longer than this, but
much pleasanter, especially in summer, though it is rather lonely."

"So that is the reason aunt told me not to go by the river road,"
thought Calista. "I declare I will the very next time I drive home."

Aunt Hannah again interposed with her bundle of patterns, and the
subject was dropped.

But, as they were returning home, Calista adverted to it again.

"Do you suppose, Mary, that the place really was left to me, and that
Aunt Priscilla is keeping me out of it?"

"No," answered Nary; "I am quite sure I have heard my father say that
nobody knew Mr. Stanfield had a child, till Miss Druett brought you
home. But if you want to know about the matter, you had better ask
father himself. Only, Calista, if I were you, I would try not to think
so much about money. If you are not careful, you will come to be as
fond of it as poor Miss Priscilla herself."

"I don't think I am fond of money," said Calista, looking a little
offended.

"But you do think about it a great deal, Calista; you cannot deny that."

"And wouldn't you if you were in my place?"

"I should be tempted to, no doubt," said Mary, honestly; "but I should
try not to give way to it, because I should not feel it right."

"Why not?"

"Because covetousness is sin," returned Mary. "The Bible says
covetousness is idolatry (Col. 3:5); and speaks of 'the covetous, whom
God abhorreth' (Ps. 10:3); and our Lord himself bids us 'take heed,
and beware of covetousness: for a man's life consisteth not in the
abundance of the things which he possesseth' (Luke 12:15). Moreover,
we are told not to love the world, neither the things which are in the
world, because if any man love the world, the love of the Father is not
in him (1 John 2:15)."

"If you were in my place, you couldn't help thinking about it,"
persisted Calista, "any more than you could help thinking about food if
you didn't have enough to eat."

"I suppose Miss Priscilla thinks she can't help it either."

"I am much obliged to you, Mary, for comparing me to Miss Priscilla!"
said Calista, with offended stiffness. "I didn't know, before, what a
good opinion you had of me."

"Now you are unreasonable, Calista, and I sha'n't answer you."

"But about this matter of grandfather's will: do you think it is
unreasonable in me to want to know the truth about it?"

"No, I don't, especially after what you have heard, and if I were you,
I would ask papa; only, Calista, don't build upon it."

But Calista could not help building upon it. She had no opportunity of
asking Judge Settson about the matter, for company came in to spend the
evening, and the next day he was called away out of town. But Calista
held firmly to her purpose.



CHAPTER FOURTH.

CASSIUS.

THE school was closed rather earlier than usual next day, and Calista
walked home. She hesitated for a moment when she came to the place
where the two roads divided, and then took the lower road, which
ran near the bank of the river, and a good deal of the way through
oak-scrub and deserted clearings. Calista had been used to walking to
and from the village alone for half a dozen years, but it cannot be
denied that she felt a little nervous as she went on for one stretch of
the road after another, meeting nobody and seeing no human habitation.
What if she should meet with wild hogs or cattle? Or, worse still, with
some of the more than half-wild "pine rats," who were to be found here
and there in the wilderness which thus stretched a great part of the
way from Cohansey River to the Atlantic Ocean.

"Pshaw, what a goose I am!" she said to herself impatiently, as she
found herself starting at a sudden rustle in the bushes. "I haven't
anything worth stealing, and I don't believe any one would want to hurt
me."

Nevertheless she felt a thrill of uncomfortable fear as a man pushed
his way through the bushes, carrying a gun and followed by a large dog,
and she was not a little relieved when the new-comer proved to be a
negro, who touched his hat civilly as he said good-afternoon.

"This is the road to the Mills, is it not?" asked Calista, returning
the old man's greeting.

"Yes, Miss, this is one road." Then, as he walked along by her side, he
said, with a little hesitation, "Beg pardon, Missy, but isn't this the
old General Stanfield's grandchild?"

"Yes; I am General Stanfield's grandchild, the daughter of Mr. Richard
Stanfield. Did you know my father?"

"Reckon I did," said the man, taking off his hat and bowing again.
"Many's the time I've rode your pa on my back, and took him out fishing
on the creek. I was with your grandpa through great part of the old
war, and all the time afterward till he died. He was a fine old
gentleman, and I wouldn't never have left him, but I couldn't run with
Miss Priscy after he was gone; so I bought a piece of land and set up
farming for myself."

"And how do you get on?" asked Calista, much interested.

"Oh, first-rate," answered Cassius, cheerfully. "We's had our ups and
downs, of course. I've been laid up with the rheumatiz some, and the
old woman has her poor spells, but we rub on. I sell a good deal of
truck in the village; and we keep lots of chickens, and ducks, and
geese. Then I fish and shoot some in the season—I've got a real nice
boat—and altogether we make out to lay up a little against the hour of
need. For the rest, why we has food and raiment, and we's learned to be
therewith content, as the good Book says."

"Have you any children?" asked Calista.

"Only two boys, Missy. They's both doing well; one's living out in
Princeton, and one in Philadelphia; both in nice gentlemen's families.
We had two nice girls, but the Lord took them both. His will be done."
And the old man lifted his hat again.

"That was hard on you," said Calista.

"Yes, it did seem hard, Missy; but He knew best. I tell my old woman
they's just as much ours as ever they was, only the Lord's keeping them
for us. Won't you stop in a minute and see Sally? She'll be dreadful
glad to see you."

"I am afraid I ought not to stop to-night, Cassius," replied Calista,
looking, with rather longing eyes, at the neat little house, where
stood Sally in the cleanest of turban handkerchiefs and aprons,
curtseying, and showing her white teeth in a smile of welcome. "But
I mean to come and see you some time. I should like to hear about my
father."

Sally was not to be cheated, however. She came down to the gate to
speak to Calista; gave her a handful of lilies-of-the-valley, from her
neat flower garden, and insisted on filling her basket with delicate,
fresh-baked ginger-nuts, which Calista would have refused.

"Please do take 'em, Missy," said Sally. "I know young ladies is fond
of ginger-nuts, and it ain't every one that can make 'em like me,
though I say it that shouldn't."

She emptied her plate into Calista's basket, and then said something
in an undertone to her husband, of which Calista only caught the words
"Old Zeke."

"I'm a-going," said Cassius.

"Well, Missy, I won't urge you to stay, as it's growing late; and young
ladies of good family shouldn't ought to be out in lonesome places
after sundown. I've got to go your way a piece, so I'll just see you
past the woods."

"What did Sally say?" asked Calista, as they walked on together.

"Oh, she was speaking about an old fellow that hangs about here
sometimes; they call him Old Zeke. I don't really suppose he'd do you
any harm; but he's a rough customer, and might scare you. And if you'll
excuse the freedom, Missy, I wouldn't come this way unless you are
driving. It's rather too lonesome a road for a young lady; and some
of these pine rats is apt to be hanging round, fishing or something.
There's Zeke now. Don't be scared, Missy, he won't hurt you."

Calista looked up, and as she confronted the old man, she was glad she
had not encountered him alone.

He was a very tall and powerful man, a good deal bent, with a shock
of grizzled hair that fell on his shoulders, and shaggy brows, under
which looked out a pair of fierce light-blue eyes. He was dressed in
an indescribable mass of rags and tatters; but over his shoulder he
carried a good, serviceable looking gun.

"Evening, Zeke," said Cassius, good-naturedly.

The old man returned a surly sort of nod, and honored Calista with a
fixed stare, which lasted till a turn of the road hid him from sight.

"That's a queer old fellow," said Calista. "I am glad I did not meet
him alone."

"Well, I don't reckon he would have hurt you—indeed, I can't say as he
ever hurt any one; but he is a queer body, as you say, Missy, and his
wife is queerer still, if all tales are true. The folks round here do
say that they know more than they've got any business to."

"More about what?" asked Calista.

"Oh, they say the old folks are in league with spirits and that they
know how to find treasures, and lost money, and so on."

"I should not think they could have found much, to judge from his
appearance," said Calista.

Cassius laughed. "Well, you can't always tell from the outside who
has money and who hasn't, but I believe it is true that they do spend
a good deal of time seeking for the money that folks say the pirates
buried along the creek here in the time of the old French war. Old Mrs.
Tyerson began talking to me about it one day, but says I,—

"'You go along with your pirates and their money. Suppose'n you did
find it, 'twould be bloody gold, and never bring you nothing but ill
luck,' says I. 'Don't covet an evil covetousness to your house, Sister
Tyerson,' says I. 'Let Old Zeke and his spells alone. I don't want his
money. I've got enough to eat and drink and wear, and something to give
to my Master besides, and when you've got that, it ain't money, nor the
want of money, that makes folks well off or bad off,' says I."

"But money is a good thing," said Calista, struck with the old man's
remarks.

"It is a good thing when it comes with the blessing of God, and in the
right way, Missy," said Cassius, solemnly. "So is everything else.
But when it comes any other way, it is nothing but a curse and a
judgment. Well, here we are within sight of the house, so I'll bid you
good-night."

"Good-night, and thank you, Cassius. I shall come and see you again
some time when I have the horse."

Calista hastened homeward, and entering at the back door, ran up
stairs to her room without meeting any one. She hid away her basket of
ginger-nuts in a safe place, brushed her hair, and went down stairs.

"Now for it!" said she as she put her hand on the lock of the parlor
door. "I wonder what kind of mood she is in?"

Miss Priscilla and Miss Druett had apparently just taken their seats at
the tea-table.

Miss Priscilla was a small, delicate woman, with a trim, upright
figure, reddish-brown hair, hardly touched with gray, and greenish
hazel eyes. She was dressed neatly, though with the utmost plainness,
and would have been pretty but for her eager, suspicious expression,
and the nervous restlessness of her eyes, which seemed not to be still
for a moment. As Aunt Chloe said, Priscilla looked as if she saw
ghosts, or was afraid she should see them. Her greeting to Calista was
characteristic.

"Well, what has brought you home now? I didn't expect to see you
till after supper. You would have had plenty of time to walk home
afterwards."

"She is late enough as it is," observed Miss Druett, not unkindly. "Get
yourself a plate, Calista; Chloe has not provided one for you."

Calista did not answer either observation. She brought herself a plate
and knife, accepted the cup of tea Miss Druett handed her, and helped
herself to a slice of bread and some butter. A small dish of fried fish
stood at Miss Priscilla's plate, and there was nothing else on the
table.

"Oh, don't be bashful!" said Miss Priscilla, in a bitterly sarcastic
tone. "Take all the butter on the plate, do. Perhaps you would like
some of my fish?"

A spark of fun gleamed in Calista's eyes.

"Thank you, aunt; since you are so kind, I won't hurt your feelings
by refusing. My walk has given me an appetite." And she coolly helped
herself to the smallest of the fish.

Miss Priscilla looked helplessly irritated at seeing herself taken at
her word, and regaining possession of the dish, she hastily set it on
the other side of her plate.

Miss Druett suppressed a smile, and shook her head at Calista.

"Well, and what is going on in town?" asked Miss Druett, presently.
"Haven't you any news to tell us?"

"There is a good deal going on in one way," said Calista. "The ladies
are all very busy about this fair for furnishing the new parsonage
house."

"Rubbish!" said Miss Priscilla.

"The girls are all going to work for it," continued Calista. "Miss
McPherson gives them Wednesday afternoon, and they are each to make
something for the sale."

"Oh," said Miss Priscilla, with an unusually polite display of
interest, "that seems a very nice plan of Miss McPherson's. I suppose
she furnishes the materials?"

"Of course she furnishes the materials for most of the girls' work. She
buys all their silks and crewels, and so on, in Philadelphia."

"And makes a good profit on them, no doubt. Trust a Scotch woman for
that."

"I don't know how that is," replied Calista. "She wanted Mr. Clapp to
keep fine working materials, but he said the profit was not worth the
risk and trouble. He does keep netting, thread, and silk, and a few
other things."

"Oh," said Miss Priscilla, again; "and what part do you intend to take
in this notable display of industry and charity?"

Calista made no answer, but passed her cup for some more tea.

"One cup of tea is enough for a girl like you," said Miss Priscilla.
"Do you hear me, Druey? I say one cup is enough."

"Nonsense!" was the reply. "Let the child have her tea. I am sure it is
not strong enough to hurt her."

And she coolly filled the cup and returned it to Calista.

"Oh, very well; of course it is for you to say. Perhaps, Miss Calista
Stanfield, you will condescend to answer my question. What part are you
intending to take in this matter?"

"That is for you to say, Aunt Priscilla," replied Calista, in unruffled
good humor. "You know very well that I have nothing of my own. I
thought if I had some fine knitting cotton, I might knit a bureau
cover, or something of that sort."

"Oh! And how much might this same fine knitting cotton cost?"

"About a quarter of a dollar, I suppose; perhaps thirty or forty cents."

"Oh, indeed! Then I can tell you, Miss Calista Stanfield, you will
have no twenty-five or thirty cents to spend on any such purpose.
Twenty-five or thirty cents, indeed! Why not ask at once for
twenty-five or thirty dollars?"

"I might about as well, I suppose," said Calista. "I should not have
mentioned the matter at all if you had not asked me."

"Don't be pert, miss. I suppose you want to show off your charity at my
expense; but you must make up mind to be mortified for once."

"For once!" thought Calista. But she said, cheerfully: "Oh, it won't
mortify me at all, Aunt Priscilla. All the girls will know that it is
your doing and not mine, and so will every one else."

"You might let the child have a little money for once," said Miss
Druett.

"Money indeed! You talk as if I were made of money!" said Miss
Priscilla. "Money to furnish the parsonage! Let Mr. Lee furnish his own
parsonage. Money indeed! Money!"

The party relapsed into silence, which was maintained till Chloe came
to take the tea-things.

Miss Priscilla, with her own hands, carefully removed some
infinitesimal particles of butter from the plates and replaced them on
the dish.

"There is enough for your supper and David's," said she, anxiously.
"You won't need to use any more."

Chloe sniffed the air contemptuously, but made no reply.

"What made you so late coming home?" asked Miss Druett.

"I came by the river road," replied Calista.

"Why did you do that? It is longer and very lonely."

"Yes, I know, and I don't think I shall try it again; at least on foot."

"Did you see anybody?"

"Yes, I saw old Cassius and his wife, and had quite a talk with him."

"Cassius—what about Cassius?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"Nothing, aunt, only I was saying I saw him and had a little talk with
him."

"I won't have you talking with every one you meet," said Miss
Priscilla, sharply; "you are just such another as your father—hail
fellow, well met, with half the vagabonds in the country."

"I should not call Cassius a vagabond," said Calista, too much
accustomed to Miss Priscilla's remarks about her father to mind them
as another girl would. "He has a nice little farm, with everything
comfortable about him, and seems as contented as the day is long. But I
did meet a vagabond, Miss Druett," said Calista; "the queerest-looking
old fellow I ever saw. Cassius calls him Old Zeke. He says the old man
and his wife are treasure-seekers, and know more than they ought to.
Do you know anything about him, Miss Druett?" she asked, seeing, or
fancying, that Miss Druett looked uneasy.

"A little," replied Miss Druett. "He used to hang about here, years
ago. He and his wife are miserable cheats and impostors. I hope poor
Cassius is not taken in by him."

"I should say there was no danger," said Calista. "Cassius says that,
even if they did find the pirate's money, it would be bloody gold and
would bring ill luck; and besides, he has enough without it."

"Has he? He must be rich, then!"

"I don't think it always takes riches to make people contented,"
observed Calista; "just see Miss Hannah and Miss Betsy, how happy they
are!"

"So they ought to be—such prices as they ask for their weaving and
spinning," said Miss Priscilla. "What do you know about them, pray?"

"I went with Mary to see them about some towels they are weaving for
Miss Alice, and they asked us to stay to tea."

"Oh, Miss Alice is too fine a lady to do her own spinning, I suppose!"

"Not at all, aunt. Miss Alice spins beautifully fine thread, but she
sends it to Miss Hannah to be woven. She is having a set of towels made
of her own spinning for the new parsonage."

"Oh, she is! And you tell of it, thinking I will be moved to do the
like."

"Not at all, aunt. I never thought of such a thing."

Miss Priscy muttered something about sly minxes, as she sank back in
her chair for the nap she always took between her early tea and her
game of cribbage or backgammon.

Calista waited till her eyes were closed, and then addressed herself in
a low tone to Miss Druett.

"Do you know anything about these people—Zeke and his wife?"

"Why should you think I know anything about them?" said Miss Druett,
answering, as she often did, one question by another.

"I thought you looked so."

"You are a sharp observer. Yes, I have known something about them."

"Do they really set up for supernatural knowledge, and all that sort of
thing?"

"They really do, and perhaps believe a little in their own devices,
though I hold them to be miserable swindlers and cheats. They have done
mischief enough in these parts before now. I am very sorry to hear that
they have appeared again. Their father was in the same way, and it was
said that he did really discover a sum of money. It was quite true that
he went to Philadelphia, and was seen there dressed like a gentleman
and spending a great deal. But his prosperity did not last long. He
spent all he had, and the next any one knew, he was back again living
in his hole on the river bank. Zeke and his wife Jael were acquainted
with your aunt at one time, and had anything but a good influence upon
her. I should be sorry to have her fall in with them again."

Miss Druett said these words in a low whisper.

"You don't mean to say that she engaged with them in any
treasure-seeking!"

Miss Druett nodded.

"How perfectly absurd! Especially for one who does not pretend to
believe in anything."

"There is nothing strange in that. A great many people believe in
witchcraft who don't believe in the Bible. You can see how very unlucky
it would be for her to fall in with them again."

"Yes, indeed. I am sorry I mentioned seeing the old man. He is a
horrid-looking object. I should not like to meet him alone."

"You must never run the risk," said Miss Druett. "I am very glad old
Cassius was with you."

"Have you done anything about my frocks?" asked Calista, after a little
silence.

"Not yet, but I hope to."

"I need some books," said Calista. "Miss McPherson says I must have a
dictionary and grammar, and a book to write exercises in."

"Then you may tell Miss McPherson that you won't have anything of
the sort!" said Miss Priscilla, rousing herself and speaking with a
sharpness and suddenness which made Calista start. "You have had books
enough already. Always something to extort money. I won't let you go to
school another day. You shall stay at home and work for a living, and
save me the expense of a servant, instead of going to school all day
and then coming home and sitting for an hour with your hands before you
doing nothing. I say you shall not go to school another day."

"Very well, aunt," replied Calista, coolly. She had heard the threat
too often to be alarmed at it.

"Nonsense!" said Miss Druett, in her trenchant way.

"Get the backgammon board, Calista, and tell Chloe to bring candles."

Calista did so, and then betook herself to her own room. It was
anything but a sumptuous apartment. There had once been a handsome
paper on the walls, but it was stained with damp and hanging loose
in some places. The pieces of carpet by the bedside and before the
glass were trodden into shreds despite Calista's mending, and the
bed covering was old and faded. Forlorn as the room was, it was
Calista's only place of refuge, and she had done her best to make it
look pleasant. The floor was clean and the old furniture well dusted.
Calista's few books were neatly disposed on the mantlepiece. The
window, which looked to the east, was open, and a full flood of yellow
moonlight poured in at it. A mocking-bird was singing in the pine trees
which bordered one side of the old graveyard, and frogs and beetles
piped a not unmelodious chorus. Calista drew a chair into the deep
window recess and sat down, leaning her arm on the sill.

"How lovely it all is!" said she to herself. "If Judge Settson or even
Aunt Hannah had this place, what a paradise they would make of it! As
for Aunt Priscilla, she might as well be in the poor-house as here
for all the comfort she takes or lets any one else take. I wonder if
it really is religion that makes the difference. To be sure there is
Antoinette Diaments—she pretends to be a Christian, and she is as mean
as Aunt Priscilla in a different way. But, then, she is only one.

"I verily believe it is as Mary says, that it is not money that spoils
people, but the love of it. If I thought it would make me like Aunt
Priscilla, I am sure I would never think of being rich again. Oh dear,
how hungry I am!"

And then Calista bethought herself of Sally's basket of ginger-nuts,
and, taking them from their concealment, she made a hearty supper. The
spicy gingerbread made her thirsty, and taking her cracked jug she went
down to the well for some water. As she was drinking from the bucket,
she saw that her handkerchief had fallen from the window. As she went
to pick it up, she heard Miss Druett say inside,—

"You might let her have some new frocks and a little money for this
work nonsense. I tell you, Priscilla, you are making yourself the town
talk, and if you push the child to the wall, she will rebel."

"I can't," said Miss Priscilla. "I shall die in the poor-house."

"You might let her have her mother's things, at least. She has a right
to them, and she is quite old enough—"

Calista heard no more, for a movement within awoke to the fact that it
would not be well for her to be caught listening, and she hastened back
to her room. She had heard enough to give her food for reflection and
wonder.

Her mother's things! What did Miss Druett mean? She went back to her
childish days when she lived with Miss Malvina, and tried to recall
everything that the old lady had said to her. There was a vision
floating before her of some boxes carefully put away, and of Miss
Malvina showing her several things, and especially a beautiful book,
and saying something about her dear mother. But think as she could, the
vision would not assume any distinctness.

"Oh dear, if I could only remember!" said she at last. "If I could only
remember my mother! But I can't. All I can think of is a pale lady
lying on a sofa, or something, and dressing a doll for me, and then
holding me on her lap and teaching me to say, 'Now I lay me down to
sleep.' Oh, if she had only lived, wouldn't I have worked my fingers
off for her! I do think it was very hard I could not have a father and
mother like other people. Mary would say I had a Father in heaven, but
that does not seem the same at all."

Then came one of those vivid flashes of memory which do come unbidden,
though they will seldom obey the will. She saw herself seated upon
Miss Malvina's lap by the side of the great open fireplace filled
with generous logs, before which stood a row of roasting apples. She
could see the very smoothing-irons on the mantlepiece, the stand with
the great Bible in the corner, the patchwork cushioned chairs, and
Miss Malvina's chintz short-gown and quilted petticoat, and heard the
old lady's tremulous voice as she said, "That was your dear mother's
favorite hymn, Calista, my love. Never forget it; never forget that
your dear mother was a true Christian, if a Christian ever lived. The
Lord was her shepherd, and he will be yours too, and lead you home to
himself and to her if you will only give your heart to him."

"Then my mother is in heaven now!" said Calista to herself, with a
feeling of awe. She sat a few minutes longer, and then lighting her
very small end of candle, she got out her old ragged Bible and opened
it at random.

   "'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and
lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'" (Matt. 11:
28, 29).

Calista sighed. She knew that she was not meek or lowly. She tried
again, and opened to the third of Colossians, where she read,—

   "'Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.'"

There was not much comfort in that either, but she read the chapter to
the end, and then knelt down and repeated the Lord's Prayer and "Now I
lay me down to sleep."

She could not have told exactly what she expected to gain by the
action. It was simply an act of obedience. God had told people to pray,
and she would pray. But by so doing, she had made a great step. She had
recognized and confessed a conscious relationship of some kind between
herself and her Creator. Hereafter, the world would never be quite the
same to her.



CHAPTER FIFTH.

CALISTA ASKS A QUESTION.

CALISTA was up and dressed early as usual. She had heard the threat of
taking her out of school too often to be much impressed by it, and she
went down to her breakfast with Miss Druett cheerfully enough. Miss
Priscilla usually breakfasted in bed, and as Calista passed the door of
her room she heard her scolding Chloe for putting so much butter on the
toast.

"There she goes," thought Calista; "I do wonder why Chloe stays here,
when she might go away if she pleased."

Breakfast was the only comfortable part of her home life to Calista.
Miss Druett gave her a fair share of the food, such as it was, and
often shared her own cup of coffee or chocolate with her, and she could
eat without feeling that every mouthful was watched. She dispatched her
basin of bread and milk with an appetite. Miss Druett was not unkind,
and gave her a liberal supply of coffee, but she did not seem inclined
to talk, and Calista fancied that her face wore an unusual shade of
care.

"Am I to go to school, Miss Druett?" asked Calista, when she had
finished her breakfast.

"To school!" said Miss Druett, starting. "Yes, of course; why not?"

"You know what aunt said last night; and, really, there is not much use
in my going unless I can have books. I need a dictionary and a Bible to
use in school."

"A Bible!" said Miss Druett, in a tone of as much surprise as if
Calista had said she needed an Arabic lexicon. "What do you want of a
Bible?"

"To read in. We read round every morning now. Besides, we are to have a
Bible-class three times a week, and Miss McPherson wishes all the girls
to join it."

"Oh! Well, I will see what can be done; but I don't know. I can't
promise anything."

"Aunt Priscilla grows harder every day, I think," observed Calista.

"That is to be expected. Calista!" said Miss Druett, with sudden
animation. "Whatever you do, never, never set your heart upon
money—upon being rich. It is a love that once hatched in the heart
is like the cow-bird in the robin's nest: it turns everything else
out that it may devour all for itself. I love you, child—you may not
believe it, but I do—and I would rather see you in your coffin than see
you setting your heart on being rich."

Calista was standing by Miss Druett, and as the lady finished speaking,
she did what she had hardly ever done before: she stooped down and
kissed Miss Druett.

"I do believe you love me, Miss Druett, and I love you. I wish I could
love Aunt Priscilla, but she won't let me."

Miss Druett returned the kiss, and her eyes were suspiciously bright as
she said,—

"Pity her then, child; you can do that. Now get ready for school, and
go into Priscilla's room before you set out. She has a message to
send to Mr. Settson. Don't say anything to her about your books. Ask
Miss McPherson to provide for you what is absolutely needful, and if
Priscilla won't pay the bill, I will contrive to do it myself."

Calista went away and got ready for school as she was bidden, and then
opened the door of her aunt's room. Miss Priscilla, with a shawl round
her shoulders, was sitting up in bed examining an account-book, and
looked up impatiently as Calista entered.

"What do you want here?" was her polite salutation.

"Miss Druett said you wanted to send some message by me," returned
Calista, with equal conciseness.

"Oh! Well, you may go and see Mr. Settson and tell him I think he must
foreclose that mortgage of Simpson's. He will never pay in the world."

"His wife is sick so much," said Calista, she hardly knew why.

"What is that to you, miss? Are you going to set up to direct my
business affairs? Take the message as I tell you."

"Very well," answered Calista, dryly; "anything else?"

"Anything else! No, nothing else. I suppose you would like to have me
give you a commission to buy yourself a silk dress and an India shawl,
wouldn't you?"

"An India shawl would hardly be suitable for me, but I should like
the dress very much," said Calista, with the mischievousness which no
amount of snubbing had ever subdued. "Shall I get black or colored,
aunt? Clapp has a lovely dark blue, which would be just the thing for
me. Shall I bring you a sample?"

Miss Priscilla seized the book which lay before her in a way which made
Calista dodge, as if she expected to have her ears boxed with it—a
thing which had happened before—but Miss Priscilla, if such were her
design, relinquished it and contented herself with a threatening shake
of her head.

Calista went away laughing; but her laugh was suddenly checked.

"I ought not to enrage her so," she said to herself. "There is no
telling what she might do. But the temptation is so strong to take her
at her word. I wonder what she would say if I did. Anyway, I shall have
a chance to see Mr. Settson."

Calista walked to school—not by the river road, however—and arrived
just in time to save a "tardy" mark.


At recess the girls were of course engaged in discussing the question
of the sale.

"What are you going to make, Calista?" asked Antoinette Diaments of
Calista, as the latter stood near Miss McPherson, in the school-house
porch. She had purposely chosen her time with the amiable intention of
mortifying Calista before her schoolmistress; but her scheme failed;
and, moreover, involved herself in unexpected trouble.

"I don't suppose I shall make anything," said Calista, coloring. "My
aunt has her own ideas about such things, and she has not said yet that
she will give me any money."

"Oh!" said Antoinette, sarcastically. "How sorry you must be!"

Before Calista had time to reply, Belle Adair came up in a great hurry.

"Oh, Antoinette, I am glad I have found you," said she. "Tessy has
asked me to buy some netting cotton and a needle for her; and she told
me to ask you for the money you owe her, as she has none."

"I haven't any change," said Antoinette, coloring and looking daggers
at Belle.

"Eh, my dear! What is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"Nothing, ma'am; only Antoinette owes Tessy four and sixpence, and
Tessy told me to ask her for it; but Antoinette says she has no change.
Perhaps you can let her have some, ma'am," said Belle, as demurely as a
kitten bent on mischief.

"Certainly," said Miss McPherson, producing her purse. "What do you
wish to have changed, Antoinette?"

"There is no hurry," said Antoinette.

"Why, yes, I think there is," returned Belle. "You know, Antoinette,
Tessy has asked you for the money several times, and you could not pay
her because you had not the change. But, as Miss McPherson is so kind—"

Miss McPherson smiled, and frowned a little at the same time. She was
used to girls, and saw through Belle's little plot on the instant. She
also saw through Antoinette's evasion, and she detested meanness. Her
tone was, therefore, somewhat sharp as she said,—

"Antoinette, did you hear me? Give me the bill you wish to have
changed, this moment."

Startled out of her presence of mind, Antoinette pulled her purse out
of her pocket. As she did so, the clasp gave way and let out a handful
of silver and copper, which fell on the floor. The girls exchanged
glances as they assisted in picking it up.

"Give that money to me!" said Miss McPherson. Then, as she counted it
over, "What did you mean by saying that you had no change, Antoinette?
Here are more than ten shillings in silver."

"I—I forgot," murmured Antoinette.

"Why did you not look to see? I must say it is difficult to believe you
could forget, with all this weight of silver in your pocket. Anabella,
here is Theresa's money. Are you going to lay it out for her?"

"Yes, ma'am. Miss Jessy said I might, as she had no netting cotton of
the proper size, and Tessy cannot go out on account of her lame ankle."

"Oh, very well. I presume you will use very good judgment. Anything
else?"

"Please, ma'am, may I walk down with Anabella?" said Calista. "I have
an errand for my aunt."

"Certainly; only do not be late for dinner; and, my love, I should like
you to perform a commission for me. Have you any work on hand that you
particularly wish to do?"

"No, ma'am," answered Calista, with a beating heart.

"Then perhaps you will undertake some. I have no time for fancy work,
at present, and I believe I must make you and Jenny Rose my deputies.
What say you? Will you knit a bureau cover for me? I know you are an
excellent knitter."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am. I should like to do it so very much," replied
Calista, with a rush of love and gratitude which brought the unusual
tears very near her eyes.

"Very well, that is settled. Ask Miss Jessy what you will need, and I
will give you an order for the materials. But remember, I shall expect
something quite out of the common, that will be a credit to both of us.
Now go, or you will have no time."

"Isn't she a dear?" said Anabella, as they walked away.

"Indeed she is. You might say so if you were in my place. But, Belle,
you have got Antoinette into a scrape."

"Yes, a worse one than I meant, though she deserves it for the way she
treats little Tessy. Think of her keeping the poor child out of her
money all this time!"

"Antoinette can't bear to part with money: all the girls know that,"
said Calista. "I wonder if I should be so mean if I were rich."

"It is not being rich. Look at Elizabeth Howell. She hasn't a mean
thing about her. Are you going to buy your cotton to-day?"

"No, I must see Miss Jessy first; and, as I said, I have a message from
my aunt to Mr. Settson."

"Good-bye, then, till I see you again."


Calista found the old gentleman alone in his office. She delivered her
message, and then plunged into the subject of which her own head was
full.

"Mr. Settson, I should like to ask you a question, if it is not
improper."

"Ask it," said Mr. Settson, smiling, "and then I shall know whether it
is improper or not."

"It is about my grandfather's will," said Calista. "Miss Betsy told me
the other day that grandfather told her he had altered his will and
done justice to his son Richard and his wife. She said he told her and
Miss Hannah so only two or three days before he died. I am not a child
any more," said Calista. "I think I have some right to know about the
affairs of my own family. There is no use in asking anything of Aunt
Priscilla or Miss Druett. Miss Druett thinks I am no more than a baby,
and I don't know but aunt would kill me outright if I were to say
anything to her about business."

Mr. Settson leaned back in his chair, took a pinch of snuff, and
regarded his young visitor with a critical glance.

Calista was, as I have said, a very handsome girl, and had an
expression of vigorous health and strength somewhat uncommon at that
time, when it was considered a mark of gentility to be "delicate." She
carried herself remarkably well, and spoke with a ladylike tone and
accent, and though her manner was decided, it was modest and womanly.

Mr. Settson's first remark was apparently irrelevant, to say the least
of it.

"Take off that poke bonnet, child; I want to look at you."

Calista found it somewhat hard to repress a movement of impatience,
but she did repress it, and took off her bonnet as desired, showing
the beautiful black hair, which no amount of brushing would keep from
curling and waving in its own way.

"Humph!" said the old gentleman. "A thorough Stanfield. Did any one
ever tell you that?"

"Yes, sir. Miss Betsy and Miss Hannah said so, and old Cassius."

"Well, my dear child, I quite agree with you that you have a right—a
moral right at least—to know the particulars concerning your late
grandfather's estate; but the story is not to be told in five minutes.
Have you half an hour to spare?"

"Oh, yes, sir, an hour, if necessary," answered Calista, with a beating
heart, but outwardly quite composed. If her life with Miss Priscilla
had taught her nothing else, it had at least taught her self-control.

"Very well. To make you understand matters, I must begin some way
back. You know, probably, that your grandmother was a second wife. She
was a Miss Howell, related to the Howells at Graywich, and possessed
of some property, which went into your grandfather's hands, as there
were no special settlements. General Stanfield was somewhat advanced
in life, and Priscilla, the only child of his first wife, was nearly
as old as his bride. When Richard came, he was naturally the object of
great affection, and I do not hesitate to say that his father was most
injudiciously, even culpably, indulgent to him.

"The boy was permitted to run wild, so far as any government was
concerned. He associated with all sorts of people, and was given an
almost unlimited command of money. This was particularly the case after
his mother died, which she did, unfortunately, when your father was
only ten years old. Under such circumstances, it is a wonder that your
father grew up no worse than he did. I do not mean to say that he was
addicted to low vice or dissipation, for such was never the case, but
he was extravagant and self-indulgent, and totally without any guiding
principle, religious or otherwise. Your grandfather had unfortunately
taken up with those notions of the French philosophers which Mr.
Jefferson had made fashionable."

Mr. Settson then gave an account of her father's college life, his
marriage, and the displeasure of her grandfather, and added: "A few
days about ten, I think—before his death, as I was riding out of town
to keep an appointment, I met General Stanfield, who had been away for
two or three weeks. He directed Cassius, who was with him as usual, to
go on, while he turned his horse and rode by my side for some distance,
talking on various subjects. Just as we were about to part, he said:

"'Settson, I have made a new will.'

"'Indeed!' said I.

"'Yes,' said he. 'I have thought the matter over, and I believe I have
been wrong, so I have made a new will, giving the homestead and all in
Cohansey to Dick and his children, if he has any, with a due allowance
to his wife. I shall bring the papers in to you in a few days, and we
will consult on the best way of obtaining intelligence.'

"If I had had any suspicion of what was coming, I should have asked for
more particulars; but your grandfather's horse was very restive, and I
was in a hurry to keep my appointment. Just as your grandfather turned
back to go home, he said, 'I have made you and Fabian executors and
guardians.'

"I was out of town for several days," continued Mr. Settson, "and the
very day after my return, I heard of your grandfather's death. Of
course I caused a proper search to be made for the will, but it was
not to be found. Cassius, whom I questioned closely, knew nothing of
the matter, not even when or where the will should have been made. His
master had been in New York, Philadelphia, and several other places,
but he had never known of his visiting a lawyer's office. And though
I was at a good deal of trouble and expense, I could never find out
anything about the matter."

Calista sat silent a moment; then she asked, in a tone which was
singularly calm and business-like,—

"In what year was this, Mr. Settson?"

"In 1817."

"But did not grandfather know that his son was dead and had left a
child?"

"No, he knew nothing of either circumstance. Your parents never wrote
to him, or he never received their letters. Shortly after your mother's
death, Priscilla informed me, through Miss Druett, that she had learned
that Richard had left a daughter who was now an orphan, and that as
soon as the spring opened, she intended to send for the child and give
it a home, though, as she was careful to state, she was under no legal
obligation to do so."

"Then if the last will could be found, would the old place and the rest
be mine?"

"Without doubt; but I fear it never will be found."

"Mr. Settson," said Calista, with flashing eyes and pale lips, "do you
suppose Aunt Priscilla could have destroyed that last will?"

Mr. Settson was so startled by the question that it took a very large
pinch of snuff to restore his equanimity.

"My dear Calista, you should think twice before even hinting at an
accusation of such a crime against your aunt. No, I do not believe
her capable of such an action—at least at that time. At present I do
not hesitate to say that I should hardly be surprised. I believe the
love of money has grown to be a disease with her, as it does with most
people who indulge in it. Never let it get hold of you, my dear child."

"There seems no great danger of my having any money to love," said
Calista, rather bitterly.

"Oh, but you may love money without having it," said Mr. Settson. "I
suppose as many poor people love money as rich people—perhaps more in
proportion."

"I am taking up a great deal of your time," said Calista, becoming
suddenly aware of the fact, and rising as the church clock struck.

"You are welcome to it, my child. Sit down again for a moment; I have
something more to say to you."

Calista sat down, wondering what was coming.

"My dear Calista, I have always been interested in you," began Mr.
Settson, "for the sake of your grandfather, who was my father's friend
and mine, as well as for your own sake, and also because I consider
myself as your guardian by your grandfather's appointment. When
Miss Druett brought you home, I applied to Miss Priscilla Stanfield
for permission to take you and bring you up as my own, but this she
refused, and for some reason, which I do not understand, has always
refused. I have, however, kept my eye upon you. Thus I prevailed upon
your aunt to send you to school—"

"I thought that was Miss Druett's doing," interrupted Calista,
surprised.

"It was, in a great degree; that is, I should never have carried my
point but for her. What I wish to say is, that you may always come to
me for any advice or help you need. Consider me as standing to you in
the place of a father."

"Thank you, sir," said Calista, gratefully; "I am sure you are very
good. It is a comfort to think I have even one friend to look to."

"'You have one Friend far more powerful than I am, my child, if you
will only seek him. Try to cultivate a sense of personal religion. Do
you do so?"

"No, Mr. Settson," answered Calista, with the perfect frankness which
was one of her best traits. "I don't even know exactly what you mean by
personal religion."

"I mean personal loyalty to a personal God and Saviour," said Mr.
Settson, emphatically. "You can understand that."

"Yes, sir; but I am afraid I don't feel it. Mr. Settson, will you just
tell me one thing?"

"If I can, certainly."

"Do you really and truly, I don't say believe, but feel and realize it,
that God is your own Friend and Father, and loves you so that he really
cares for what you do and what happens to you?"

"I most certainly do!" answered the old lawyer, with an earnestness
equal to her own. "I don't say that I am able to realize the fact at
all times alike, but I know and believe it as firmly as I do in my own
existence. Calista, I have had a reasonably prosperous and happy life,
but I solemnly declare that, only for my children, if I believed this
life was all, and that there was no God, or that God did not love and
care for me, I would give up life as a bad business, and be rid of the
trouble."

"But would that be right?" asked Calista.

"Perhaps not; but I fear the idea of right and wrong would not be very
strong with me under such circumstances as I have supposed."

"What about Mr. Simpson's mortgage?" asked Calista, as she rose to go.

"Oh! Tell Miss Priscilla that the man has been sick and unfortunate,
but he is sure to pay in the end, and I think she had better give him a
little more time. The investment is safe enough."

"Please write it," said Calista. "She will only rave at me."

"Perhaps it would be better." Mr. Settson wrote his note.

Calista put it in her pocket and walked away, with her head fuller of
thoughts than it had ever been before. She was so absent in school,
and made so many mistakes that Miss Jessy observed to Miss Meeks that
Calista's head was far too full of her fancy work, and Miss Meeks
returned with a sarcastic smile, that she had never expected anything
else.



CHAPTER SIXTH.

THE SECRET DRAWER.

FOR several days Calista went about like one in a dream. She was so
absent that Miss Druett wondered what had come over the child; and she
made so many blunders in school that she brought down on her head a
sharp reprimand from Miss Meeks.

"It is just what I predicted when this nonsense fair was first gotten
up," said that lady. "Your head is so full of your fancy work that you
can think of nothing else."

"Eh! What is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"It is that Miss Stanfield is so careless that there is no bearing it,
ma'am," answered Miss Meeks. "Her exercise is just a disgrace with
blots, and the writing looks as if a powowet * had wagged over it."
Miss Meeks was apt to get to her Scotch when excited. "I tell her,
ma'am, it is a poor return for your kindness about the knitting work,"
pursued the teacher; "verra ungrateful, I must needs say."

   * A tadpole or pollywog, as we call it hereabouts.

"It was not the knitting work," said Calista, very much hurt, but
trying to speak civilly, as she knew how Miss McPherson was vexed by
any rudeness to poor Miss Meeks. "I have had a great deal to think of
this week, Miss Meeks, and I know I have been careless, but I will try
to do better. I handed you the first copy of the exercise instead of
the second—that is all. Here is the right one."

Miss McPherson took it from her hand and looked it over. "That is not
bad," said she; "but you should not allow yourself to write carelessly
at any time. However, Miss Meeks will excuse you this once."

"Of course," said the teacher, not very graciously however, and as she
went away, she murmured something about favorites and absurd indulgence.

Miss McPherson only smiled. She understood Miss Meeks's good qualities,
and she knew that the poor lady's irritability had a better excuse than
that of most people.

"Really, Calista, my dear, you must try to do better, for your own
sake," said she, gently. "Remember that you are losing opportunities
which you may not have very long, and for which you are responsible.
Whatever it is that's occupying your mind, put it aside in school time
and give your whole attention to your lessons."

Calista felt the wisdom of the advice, and tried to follow it in school
hours, but out of school, all her thoughts were occupied about what Mr.
Settson had told her. Then the old Stanfield place was really hers, by
right. Her grandfather had meant her to have it; he had made a will to
that effect, and her aunt had either hidden or destroyed it. Of that
Calista had no doubt, and conviction embittered her feeling towards
Miss Priscilla to an almost intolerable degree.

"Oh, if I could find a chance, wouldn't I take one good look into
grandfather's room?" she said to herself, looking up at the shutters,
which she had never seen unbarred since she lived in the house.

The room in question opened from the now never used back parlor, and
had been the General's private office. The back parlor was high and
spacious, and contained two or three tall book-cases, at which Calista
often gazed with longing eyes. They were always kept locked, and
the faded green silk linings of the glass doors hid their contents
effectually. The front parlor was kept in some sort of order, but the
shutters were always closed, and the room was forbidden ground to
Calista.

It was Wednesday, and the afternoon session of school was to be devoted
to working for the much-talked-of fair. Calista had asked to be
excused, and had come home. To her surprise, she found no one in the
sitting-room.

"Where are my aunt and Miss Druett, Chloe?" she asked, going into the
kitchen.

"Gone to town to see about some law business, I expect," was the
answer. "What brings you here at this time of day?"

Calista explained.

"Oh, all right. Honey, you won't be afraid to stay in the house alone
a little, will you? I want dreadful bad to run over and see Sally a
little. She's got some stuff for the rheumatism, and I want to get the
receipt. You can lock the doors, you know, if you are afraid. You won't
be scared, will you?"

"No, of course not," replied Calista, inwardly rejoiced at being left
alone in the house; "but you know what aunt will say if she comes home
and finds you gone."

"Let her say," returned Chloe; "anyhow, I shall be back before she
will. But I'd lock the doors if I were you."

There was no danger of Calista's neglecting this precaution. She had no
mind to be surprised in the work she proposed to herself.

With a beating heart, she betook herself to the back parlor. She found
the book-cases all locked but one, which seemed to contain nothing,
only odd bound volumes of magazines and old newspapers. From these,
Calista extracted some numbers of the "Gentleman's Magazine" and a
couple of volumes of "La Belle Assemblée," which she laid aside,
intending to carry them to her room. She then closed the doors and
proceeded to examine the drawers under them. They contained nothing but
rubbish—bits of old fancy work and such like—but in one of them she
discovered a pretty leather working-case or equipage, as is used to be
called, containing a still serviceable pair of scissors. This she put
in her pocket, not without some misgivings.

Then she went out to the kitchen, and finding all still, she returned
and tried the door of her grandfather's room. It was locked, as she
expected, but as she gave the door a push, something fell within, the
lock turned in her hand, and the door opened. Astonished and almost
terrified at her own success, she examined the door, and perceived that
the socket which held the bolt had fallen through the decay of the wood.

She looked round her. The room was almost dark, but a little light came
through the round holes in the top of the shutters, enough to show
her the old mahogany desk and arm-chair, the silent clock, and the
once rich Turkey carpet which partly covered the floor, and from which
quite a cloud of little moths rose up as she stepped upon it. Over
the mantlepiece hung a portrait which she supposed to be that of her
grandmother, and under it a beautiful painted miniature of a little boy.

[Illustration: _Old Stanfield House._
 She advanced to the desk and lifted the lid.]

"That was my father, I suppose," said Calista to herself. "I am glad
grandfather kept his picture, at any rate."

She advanced to the desk and lifted the lid. It was empty, save for
a few papers which did not seem to be of any special value; only old
bills and leases. There was a recess in which lay an old-fashioned gold
seal; Calista took it up, and put her hand back to see if there was
anything else. There was nothing; but as she felt about, she touched
a spring, a small cupboard door opened, and she saw, lying upon its
shelves, half a dozen or more bright gold pieces of different sizes.

A strange feeling came over Calista at this sight—almost like that of a
starving man at the sight of food. She saw the gold, and felt as if she
must have it at any price—at any risk.

"It is yours by right," something said to her; "that and a great
deal more. Take it. Take a part of it, at any rate. Very likely Miss
Priscilla does not know of its existence, and will never miss it. She
never comes into this room. Take the gold. Who has a better right?"

It seemed afterward to Calista that she stood debating the matter
with herself for an hour. In reality, it was not for two minutes. She
listened to the voice of the tempter, and stretched out her hand for
the gold. She would have taken it in another moment—made the false step
which, perhaps, she would never have retrieved. What stopped her?

Merely an old recollection. Merely the words which had come to her mind
that night when she had first spoken to her Creator. The remembrance of
Miss Malvina's words, "Your mother was a true Christian, and is waiting
in her heavenly home for her little daughter."

Calista drew back her hand, like one who had seen a rattlesnake coiled
under the fruit he was just going to gather. In all haste she pushed to
the cupboard door, closed the desk, and fled to her own room, utterly
forgetting that she had left a witness of her presence behind her in
the books she had laid aside. Once in her own room, she threw herself
on the bed, sobbing hysterically.

"Oh, mother! I didn't take it—I didn't take it!" she cried, as if
speaking to an actual presence in the room. "Oh, mother! You saved me!
I did not take the gold! I am not a thief! Oh, how glad I am that I
didn't even touch it—"

She was still sobbing when she heard the clock strike, and knew that
her aunt must soon be at home. She arose, bathed her face and smoothed
her hair, and went down to the kitchen just in time to let in Chloe.

"I didn't mean to leave you alone so long, honey," said the old woman.
"There's a cake old Sally sent you, to make up for it. But what's the
matter?" she asked, looking curiously at Calista. "Did anything scare
you?"

"Yes; I was a little frightened at staying alone so long; but never
mind. You must hurry and get tea ready, for my aunt will be here
directly."

"That's so, and she'll raise old Ned if she's kept waiting. There, put
your cake away up stairs, and keep it for yourself. But first run and
pick up some chips for me, there's a dear."

Calista was not sorry to get into the fresh air. She picked up the
chips, and then wandered across the road to the old graveyard, and read
the inscription on her grandfather's monument.

"Twelve years ago he died," she said to herself. "For twelve long years
all his money and land have been no more to him. No, not as much as
this little wild strawberry is to me. And his life in the other world
has hardly begun yet. Twelve years. My mother has been dead longer than
that; and what difference does it make to them that one died rich and
the other poor!"

"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we carry
nothing out." Calista had heard these words many times, till they
were as trite to her as they are, perhaps, to you and me; but to-day,
sitting by her grandfather's grave, they took on a meaning as new as
though an angel had just spoken them in her ear. She saw, as it is
given to people sometimes to see, this life and the next in their
true proportions and relations. She saw how near that other life lay
to hers; how her daily path ran along its very margin, which it might
cross at any minute. She saw how immeasurably little—how absolutely
nothing—were all the interests of this life compared with that. A few
times in almost every person's life, the veil is lifted which hangs
between this life and that, and the spectator is shown a glimpse of the
fair and dreadful things behind it; and a voice, not of this world,
says,—

"These, THESE are the real things!"

The others are but dreams and shadows; or, at most, empty toys, broken
before enjoyed, wounding the hand that grasps them. Woe to him if,
having seen that sight and heard that voice, he goes on still in his
own way, living as if there were no such thing! The other day I saw
some sparrows busily making a nest in a building which was at that
moment being torn down. The silly little birds were wise compared to
such a man.

Calista rose at last, and busied herself in pulling up the weeds and
thistles which grew on her grandfather's and grandmother's grave.
She would have done the same for that of the first Mrs. Stanfield,
Priscilla's mother, but it was overgrown with a poison vine which she
dared not touch. She had but just finished her task when she saw the
chaise drive up with her aunt and Miss Druett. She gathered a bunch of
the fragrant honeysuckle and some of the exquisitely fluted buds of the
laurel, and went in.

It was very easy to see that Miss Priscilla was in one of her worst
humors. Calista had not exaggerated in saying that at such times she
was like some strong wild animal. She glared at Calista when she came
in, but said not a word. Calista put her flowers in water and came down
to tea. Not a word was spoken till Miss Druett said, not unkindly—

"I saw you come across the road, Calista. Where had you been?"

"Only in the graveyard, Miss Druett."

"And what took you there, child? It is not cheerful place."

"No, indeed. I took a fancy to read the inscription on grandfather's
monument. It is terribly out of repair, and will be tumbling down if it
is not mended. And, Aunt Priscilla, your mother's grave is all covered
with poison ivy!"

Miss Priscilla set down her teacup with shaking hands and stared at
Calista, while her cheeks and even her lips became white.

"How dare you go there?" she stammered. "How dare you speak to me of
graves?"

"Why, where is the harm?" said Calista. "I wanted to see the monuments.
We must all go there some time or other, I suppose. Death seems about
the only certain thing one has to look forward to," she continued,
musingly, and speaking more to herself than her companions. "We are
sure of that, whatever else happens."

"Be still!" almost screamed Miss Priscilla. "I won't hear such words!
Druey, make her be still! Send her away! I shall dream of dying—I know
I shall—and of the grave!"

"Hush, Priscilla. Don't excite yourself so. The child meant no harm,"
said Miss Druett. "There, run away, child, and ask Chloe for some
supper, or go up to my room if you like. There is something for you on
the bed."

Calista obeyed, wondering at the storm she had raised. She did not care
for more supper, so she went up to Miss Druett's room, where she found
two cheap but pretty new frocks and a straw bonnet such as other girls
wore. Miss Druett had evidently carried her point somehow.

She ventured down to the sitting-room after awhile. She found Miss
Priscilla asleep in her chair, as usual, and Miss Druett looking out of
the window, as usual. Calista stole to a low seat beside her, and Miss
Druett laid a hand on her head.

"Thank you ever so much for the dresses, Miss Druett," Calista
whispered; "I know they were your buying—were they not?"

"Partly, and partly Mr. Settson's. Calista, you must never again speak
to your aunt as you did to-night. I thought she would have a fit."

"I did not mean any harm, Miss Druett."

"I know it, child."

"And surely Aunt Priscilla knows that she must die some time."

"We know a great many things we do not like to think or speak about,
child; and Priscilla has a greater horror of death than any one I ever
saw."

"I don't see why she should, when she thinks that death ends
everything," observed Calista.

"Yes, but you see there is always a terrible perhaps; and then the
thought of annihilation is dreadful to most people. But—not to talk
any more about that—tell me, Calla have you seen Old Zeke or his wife
anywhere about lately?"

"No, not lately; at least, not that I am sure of," said Calista,
considering. "I saw a very tall woman on the edge of the woods as I was
coming home yesterday, but I was not near enough to see what she was
like, only, as I said, she was very tall. Why?"

"Can I trust your discretion if I tell you?"

"I think so," answered Calista—less proudly than she would have said
the words in the morning, for she still felt humbled in her own eyes.

Miss Druett put her head down to Calista's and whispered very low—

"Because I am afraid they are getting an influence over Priscilla
again. I am much mistaken if she has not had an interview with one or
other of them, and she has dropped more than one hint about spies and
so on. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and tell me if you
see anything. Hush, she is waking up. Get your knitting, child. You
should not sit idle all the evening."

Miss Druett said these words aloud.

Miss Priscilla glanced sharply at her, but apparently saw nothing to
rouse her suspicions, and the evening passed away as usual.



CHAPTER SEVENTH.

MISS MEEKS.

CALISTA waked early the next morning, and lay a long time thinking over
what had happened the day before. She shuddered at the narrowness of
her escape.

"Oh, how differently I should be feeling if I had taken that money! It
was mother who saved me," she said to herself.

And then a sensation of awe came over her as she asked herself the
question, "But who was it that sent the remembrance of mother at the
critical moment? Did he really care? Did he save me—me, who never did
or tried to do one thing for him in all my life? Can it be that Mary is
right, and that he really loves 'me?'"

Calista rose, dressed herself, and sat down in her accustomed place in
the deep window. She revolved many things in her mind. She went back
over her past life, and considered her present situation. She looked
herself fairly in the face, so to speak, and she did not find a great
deal in the view to flatter her vanity.

It was true, as Mary had hinted: she was in danger of thinking as much
of money as Aunt Priscilla herself.

Looking back over the past few weeks, she was astonished to see how
much of her time and thoughts had been bestowed on that subject alone.
Walking by the way, alone in her own room, in the school-room when her
book was before her and her mind should have been on its pages—even
in the house of God itself—her one subject of contemplation had been
money, or what money would buy; what she would do when Aunt Priscilla
was out of the way, and the Stanfield place should be her own; and
latterly, how she would find her grandfather's will; how she would
confront Aunt Priscilla, and humble her in the dust; how she would take
possession of the old mansion, and put it in perfect repair; these had
been her dreams day and night. These had led her into temptation—had
almost brought her to the commission of an act at the thought of which
she still turned cold and sick.

"I am resolved I will do so no more," she said to herself, decidedly
and almost aloud. "I will give my whole mind to my lessons, and so
prepare myself to make my own way in the world. I will try to be civil
to Aunt Priscilla, and not provoke her; but whatever I do, I won't be
thinking of nothing but money all the time, I am determined upon that.
She can't live forever, that is certain, and—"

And then Calista, pulled herself up short, vexed and ashamed to find
her thoughts, even in the very moment of her resolution, going off into
their old channels. She would find, as many another has found, that
resolutions made in mere human strength are, as opposed to the force of
inbred and indulged sin, as a rope of sand to a mountain torrent.

She rose with an impatient movement, and taking her grammar, which she
had brought home, she set herself determinedly to commit to memory the
notes under the rules, and to frame examples to illustrate them; and
she grew so interested in her work as to be surprised when the clock
struck seven, the signal for breakfast.


"Oh, Calista, why didn't you stay yesterday?" said Belle Adair, as
Calista entered the school-room. "We had such a nice afternoon! Miss
McPherson sat with us and told us stories about the time she went to
school in Scotland and in Paris."

"That must have been lovely," said Calista. "I wish I had staid."

"Why didn't you?"

"I thought of something I wished to do at home, but I didn't accomplish
it, so I might as well have been here, and better, too. What work did
you do?"

"I worked at my lace veil, and Tessy began her curtains, and did quite
a piece upon one; and Mary Burns has a rug of sewed-on work, and
Elizabeth Howell a tucked skirt, and Clary Whitman a painted velvet
stool, and I can't tell you all, only we had a lovely time!"

"All but Antoinette!" remarked Emma.

"Why, what was the matter with Antoinette?"

"Well, several things. In the first place, you must know that Miss
McPherson has been changing the rooms about. She has put Tessy in the
little room that opens from Miss Jessy's."

"Poor Tessy! She will have to learn to keep her things in order."

"Well, Tessy says she doesn't care: she wants to learn to be neat. And
Antoinette is in the other little room by herself, next to Miss Meeks.
She doesn't like it one bit, because she can't borrow of Tessy now
without being found out, and none of the other girls will lend to her.
Even Elizabeth Howell said to her, when she wanted some hairpins, 'Thee
is just as well able to buy hairpins as I am!'"

"Well, so she is. Now Mary Burns is really poor, but you don't find her
sponging!" said Emma.

"Well, but that needn't have spoiled Antoinette's comfort yesterday
afternoon. What was the matter then?"

"Oh, Miss McPherson would not let her work the grand picture with the
spangled shepherdess that she had set her heart on! She said that such
things were going out of fashion, and that this would be so expensive
no one would buy it, and she should do something less ambitious.
Antoinette said pertly she did not care whether any one bought it or
not, she should have the credit of it, and if the picture did not
sell, she should have that too. You should have seen Miss McPherson
look at her! And then Elizabeth Howell asked Miss McPherson if she did
not think it would be better to have the things sent in just from the
school, without any individual names at all."

"That is just like Elizabeth—especially as she is doing the prettiest
piece of all; I mean her muslin apron. Well, what did Miss McPherson
say?"

"She said we could take time and think the matter over, and then we
could decide."

"And then Charity Latch—just think, Calista—Charity said for her part
she wanted the credit for what 'she' did."

"She works so elegantly," said Calista, and all the girls laughed,
for it was notorious that Charity had never learned to sew up a seam
decently.

"But how do you like the idea, Calista?" asked Mary Settson.

"Oh, it suits me very well," answered Calista, with a little
bitterness, "so long as I have nothing to do at all."

"I am sure your bureau cover will be lovely."

"It isn't mine, it is Miss McPherson's. How do you like it, Mary?"

"Well, I must say, with Charity, I don't see why we should not have the
credit of what we do," said Mary. "I know I like to, for one, as well
as she does."

"The Bible says we should not let our left hand know what our right
hand does, thee knows, Mary," said Elizabeth Howell, who had joined the
group in time to hear Calista's question and Mary's answer; "and we are
not to love the praise of men."

"Not better than the praise of God," said Mary, quickly.

"And how is one to set a good example, if one's doings are never to be
known?"

"I can't say I think much of examples that are set on purpose,"
remarked Belle Adair. "And I don't believe one ought to be always
thinking about them, either. That just comes to thinking, what people
will say about you. And I suppose it is just as much loving the world
to care too much about being looked up to, as it is to care too much
about money, like some folks."

"I suppose it is," said Tessy, thoughtfully, while Mary looked annoyed.
"I thought it was every one's duty to set a good example. Have you
learned a verse, Emma? This is Bible morning, you know."

"Yes; Miss Jessy showed me a nice one," answered Emma:

   "'Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.'" (John 2:5)

"Exactly," said Elizabeth, smoothing the little girl's hair; "let us
only remember that, and our example will take care of itself."

"I wonder if Belle and Elizabeth think that I do love the world,"
thought Mary, as she took her seat; "I don't see why they should."

Calista did not find the day altogether a pleasant one. Her desk-mate,
Antoinette, was in a desperate fit of the sulks, and she gave her
companion the full benefit of it, making herself disagreeable in all
the ways which the ingenuity of ill temper could contrive. Calista
herself was preoccupied; and though she tried very hard to adhere to
the rule she had laid down of thinking of nothing in school but her
lessons, she did not succeed very well. She had allowed herself to fall
into bad habits in this respect.

And she had, besides, a cause of considerable anxiety. Putting her
hand into an inside pocket to find a pencil, her fingers encountered
something hard, which her touch did not recognize. She drew it out, and
there was the little working equipage she had found in the book-case
drawer. She had taken it almost without thought, only considering that
the scissors and bodkin would be convenient to use; but as she looked
at it she saw that the little bottle, which still smelled of otto of
roses, had a gold or gilded stopper, and that all the handles of the
implements were the same. The whole was evidently of considerable
value. Nor was that all. As Calista looked at it, she remembered the
pile of books and magazines she had intended to take to her room, and
which she had left lying on the floor by the book-case. Then, too,
there was the broken lock to her grandfather's room She did not know
whether Aunt Priscilla ever went thither, but if she did, she would be
sure to see that some one had been meddling. She would suspect Calista,
of course, as she always did suspect her of any mischief that was done
in the house.

"Well, if she does, I must just tell her the truth, whatever comes,"
thought Calista. "After all, where was the harm? She never told me not
to go there."

Calista still held the case in her hand when the recess bell struck,
and she was roused from her reverie by hearing Antoinette, say,—

"Oh, Calista, what a pretty case! Where did you get it? Let me see it,
won't you?"

"It is not mine," said Calista, holding it out for inspection. "I did
not know I had it with me."

"Did your aunt lend it to you? How curious it is! Do you suppose those
handles are gold? Let me take it, won't you?"

"No, I can't; I told you it was not mine," and Calista put out her hand
for the box.

"But you can just lend it to me for a day or two. Come, do. I am going
over to Graywich to spend Sunday, and it would be so nice to carry.
Come, do."

"I tell you it is not mine," answered Calista; the more angrily because
she was vexed with herself. "Give it to me this minute."

"Take it, then," said Antoinette, as angrily as herself. "For my part,
I would not carry about such valuable things belonging to other people.
Would you, Miss Meeks?"

Now, Antoinette had succeeded in getting on the favorable side of
Miss Meeks—an operation which she had never performed with Miss
McPherson. Moreover, Miss Meeks did not like Calista, who was somewhat
opinionated, and had a way of asking questions and wishing to go to the
bottom of things, not always agreeable or convenient to Miss Meeks.
Therefore, when appealed to in this way, by Antoinette, she was quite
ready to take up on her side.

"What do you say, Antoinette?"

"I say that, if I were Calista, I would not carry about a valuable
gold-mounted working-case belonging to somebody else."

"Certainly not. It is very improper," said Miss Meeks, with sharp
decision. "I wonder at you, Miss Stanfield—that is, I should if it
were any one else. Pray, did your aunt give you leave to take her
working-case and bring it to school?"

"It is not my aunt's working-case, that I know of, and I did not mean
to bring it to school," returned Calista; answering sharpness with
sharpness, and certainly speaking not very respectfully.

"Yes, that is very likely," sneered Antoinette.

"And if Antoinette thinks it so very improper to carry a working-case
belonging to somebody else, I think it rather singular she should be
so anxious to borrow this one to carry down to Graywich—that is, I
should if it were any one else," added Calista, with a very successful
imitation of Miss Meeks's manner.

"Miss Stanfield, you are very impertinent. I shall report you."

"Eh, what! What is the matter?" asked Miss McPherson herself, who had a
habit of suddenly appearing where she was least expected.

"The matter is, ma'am, that Miss Stanfield is insolent and disobedient,
as usual," said Miss Meek; in a tone and manner of irritability so
disproportioned to the occasion that Calista looked at her in surprise.
The poor lady's lips were white, and the drops stood on her forehead.

"How is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"Miss Stanfield has brought to school a valuable working-case of her
aunt's, as I understand without leave; and when I reproved her, she not
only answered me back, but actually mimicked me to my face," said Miss
Meeks, in a voice which shook so she could hardly articulate.

"How is that, Calista?"

"I will tell you all about it, Miss McPherson," said Calista,
recovering herself a little, but still very angry. "I found this case
in a drawer with some old rubbish, yesterday, and I put it in my pocket
without looking at it very much; I thought I would ask Miss Druett if I
might use it, because I have no scissors of my own. But she was not at
home; and when she did come, my aunt was very unwell, and several other
things happened, which, altogether, put the case out of my head, and
I forgot I had it. I found it in my pocket, just now, and Antoinette
wanted to borrow it to take down to Graywich with her when she went to
spend Saturday and Sunday. I told her it was not mine and I could not
lend it. Then she said she would not carry about valuables which did
not belong to her, and appealed to Miss Meeks, who found fault with me,
as usual. That is the whole story."

Miss McPherson looked seriously displeased, and her displeasure fell,
to begin with, in an unexpected quarter. Antoinette knew how particular
was Miss McPherson in exacting respectful treatment towards her
subordinates, and particularly towards Miss Meeks, and she waited with
ill-concealed satisfaction to hear what would be said to Calista. As it
was, however, the principal's first words were addressed to herself.

"Antoinette, did I not strictly forbid your borrowing or asking to
borrow anything whatever from your schoolmates?"

Antoinette, surprised at the sudden change of programme, could only
stammer something about not meaning to use it in school time.

"Was anything said about school or school time? Did I not positively
forbid your borrowing anything from your schoolmates on any pretext
whatever? Answer me!"

"I didn't mean—" stammered Antoinette.

"Don't tell me what you meant! Answer my question."

"Yes, ma'am," Antoinette was forced to answer.

"And yet I find you trying to borrow this very working-case from
Calista, and that when she tells you in so many words it is not hers.
I want no more words. You will take your Racine, learn the first two
speeches in Alexander by heart, and recite them to me to-morrow morning
before breakfast. No crying," added Miss McPherson, as Antoinette burst
into a flood of tears. "I will give you another ten lines for every
tear you shed."

"Well, really!" said Miss Meeks.

"Excuse me, my dear Eliza, but had you not better retire to your room
and rest a little?" said Miss McPherson in a tone of gentle authority.
"I will deal with this rebellious girl, and see that she makes you a
proper apology."

Miss Meeks murmured something not very intelligible, and went away
rather against her will, as it seemed, and Miss McPherson drew Calista
into her own special sanctum, a small, cheerful book-room opening from
the school-room.

"Now, Calista," said she, after she had taken her seat and motioned
Calista to another one, "I am going to read this article in the paper.
I want you to employ the time in thinking over your conduct this
morning, and then I shall request you to tell me whether your conduct
to Miss Meeks was ladylike or becoming. I think I can depend upon you
to be honest both with yourself and me."

Miss McPherson took up her paper and adjusted her double eye-glass, and
Calista was left to her own reflections, which were not very agreeable.
She was vexed with herself for taking the working-case at all, for
bringing it to school, and for having lost her temper, at Antoinette
for getting her into the scrape, and at Miss Meeks for her injustice
and partiality.

"I need not have spoken so to her, and above all I need not have
mimicked her; but it certainly is very vexatious to have some one
always ready to see the wrong side of you, and make the worst of
everything you say and do. Who would have thought of her getting in
such a rage over such a trifle! Her very lips were pale. I thought she
was going to faint. Oh dear, I wish I could ever have any peace or
comfort in all my life!" thought poor Calista, and the tears rose to
her eyes. "I should wish I were dead if it were not wicked, and if I
were sure of being better off!"

Miss McPherson finished her article—I am able to inform the reader that
it was a critique upon a volume of tales published by one Mr. Irving,
then a young author of some promise—and laid down her paper.

"Well, Calista," said she.

Calista could not be obstinate under the kind, penetrating look of
those dear motherly gray eyes. She said at once:

"Miss McPherson, I own that I was rude to Miss Meeks this morning. I
did repeat her words, and I suppose I mimicked her. I am sorry. But if
I am to say all I think—"

"Say on, bairn," said Miss McPherson, using a tender Scotch word, which
she seldom did use. "Let me hear all that is in your mind."

"Well, Miss McPherson, I do think that Miss Meeks was unjust to me, as
she most always is. She never stopped to hear what I had to say, but
jumped to the conclusion that Antoinette was right and I was wrong.
And that is the way she always does. I never can do anything right in
her eyes, however much I try, and I do try to please her a great many
times. I should not have minded so much this morning if I had not been
troubled about other things. But, oh, Miss McPherson, I have such hard
times at home, and then when I come to school thinking to have some
rest and comfort, to be taken up so, I could not bear it."

And Calista burst into passionate tears.

"Hush, hush, my dear lassie! Don't cry so!" said Miss McPherson,
gathering the bowed head and shaking form to her bosom as if Calista
had been a little child she was comforting. "I know you do have hard
times, and I know Miss Meeks is not always very wise; but, Calista, she
has hard times too, and is likely to have harder. You, at least, have
youth and health; poor Miss Meeks has neither."

"Isn't she well?" asked Calista, interested and diverted for the
moment. "I notice she turns very pale sometimes. She did this morning.
I thought it was because she was angry."

"I don't think so. She has times of great pain, and they are the harder
to bear because she is so determined to keep them to herself. The very
suppression makes her irritable. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, indeed!" answered Calista. "But what is the matter with her?"

"I do not know, though I may guess," answered Miss McPherson; "but,
Calista, you must not breathe a word of this to any one. She cannot
endure to have the subject mentioned."

"I am sure I will not," said Calista. "I am very sorry for her. Has she
no friends?"

"Not one that I know of except a half-demented body of a sister who has
just sense enough not to be put into an asylum, but not enough to earn
her own bread or find for herself in any way. Miss Meeks maintains her
almost entirely."

"Poor thing!" said Calista. "I suppose that is the reason she makes her
dresses over and over, and wears her bonnets forever. If the girls knew
that, they would not laugh at her stingy ways, as they call them."

"If we knew about the hidden life of most people, I dare say we should
find more to pity than condemn," observed Mir McPherson. "But now that
you know—in confidence, remember—thus much about poor Miss Meeks, I am
sure you will go and ask her pardon and make friends with her."

"I will go this minute," said Calista, starting up; "and, Miss
McPherson, I am sorry I have made you so much trouble."

"Pardon is granted, my child. As to the bone of contention—the
working-case—I do not understand all the circumstances, and so I have
nothing to say; only, my dear, whatever happens, never be tempted into
being sly or doing anything underhanded. Mind, I don't say you have,
but, situated as you are, the temptation is likely enough to beset you.
For the sake of your own soul, I beseech you not to yield to it. Now go
and find poor Miss Meeks."

Calista knocked at the door of Miss Meeks's room in the third story,
and hearing a sound which she took for "Come in," she opened the door.
The room was darkened, but she saw Miss Meeks leaning back in the
rocking-chair.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," she began. And then, with a sudden
change of tone, "But what is the matter?"

Miss Meeks did not answer except by a feeble motion of the hand and a
moan. Much alarmed, Calista sprung to her side.

"Are you faint, Miss Meeks? Shall I call some one?"

"Shut the door!" whispered Miss Meeks.

Calista did so and returned, but Miss Meeks was clearly fainting.
Calista had the nursing instinct—the capacity of doing the right
thing—which is born with some people, and which others never acquire.
She loosened the broad ribbon belt and buckle which Miss Meeks wore,
and slipping her hand behind her, unhooked her dress.

"How can she dress so tight? No wonder she is faint!" was her thought.

Miss Meeks wore a thick white cape crossed over the bosom of her
low-cut dress—all dresses were cut low at that time. Calista opened it
to give the patient air, but with the instinctive delicacy of a born
lady she closed it again. She had had a glimpse of poor Miss Meeks's
hidden trouble, and a glimpse was enough.

"Poor thing! I won't bring any one to spy on her," her first thought.

She sought on the toilet table for a bottle of cologne, with which she
bathed the face of her patient, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing
her color come back. Miss Meeks opened her eyes, put her hand up to her
neck, and started.

"You are better," said Calista, gently. "Shall I help you to lie down
on the bed?"

"No, no; I am better in the chair. My drops—in a little bottle—do you
see?"

"Is this it?" asked Calista. "How much?"

"Ten drops, in water."

Calista prepared the medicine and gave it into her hand.

She swallowed it eagerly, and then, looking up, seemed for the first
time to understand who her companion was.

"Is this you, Calista? How came you here?"

"I came to tell you that I was sorry for being rude to you this
morning," said Calista, blushing; "and then I found you were ill, and
staid to wait on you. Are you better?"

"Oh, yes. It is over for this time. But you unfastened my dress!" she
added, in a tone of alarm. "Did you see?"

"I saw you had a great trouble," answered Calista, gravely; "but don't
be alarmed, Miss Meeks. I shall never mention it, I give you my word.
But—excuse me—ought you not to have a doctor?"

"No, no, child. There is nothing to be done—at least, not yet. Oh,
what will become of me and my poor sister?" Miss Meeks leaned against
Calista, and gave way to a burst of agonized sobs.

Calista wisely let her cry on, supporting her, and looking down on
her former enemy with a mixture of pity and reverence which she never
thought she could feel for Miss Meeks.

"There is the bell," said Miss Meeks, starting; "I must go down."

"You are not fit," said Calista; "cannot you lie still and rest till
dinner?"

"No; there are the little girls' spelling and reading classes; and Miss
Jessy is too busy to hear them."

"Could not I hear them, for once?" asked Calista, wondering at herself.
"They are all nice little things. I dare say they would be good with
me."

"But your grammar lesson?"

"I learned it before I came to school. Do keep still and let me try,
Miss Meeks. It won't do any such great harm if I don't succeed as well
as you, for once; and I am sure you are not fit to go down. Your lips
are white now."

"The pain takes a great deal out of me," said the poor lady, yielding
to the temptation and leaning back in her chair. "Well, Calista, if you
think you can, and Miss McPherson is willing, you may try. The children
are good little things, as you say, and will make no trouble."

"And you will forgive me for being so rude this morning?" said Calista.
"Indeed, Miss Meeks, I have my own troubles, too, or I should not have
forgotten myself so."

"Oh, my dear, don't mention it. I dare say I was unreasonable. I have
been in so much pain all the morning. You won't tell what you have
seen—not to any one?" Miss Meeks held her hand and looked imploringly
in her face.

"No, indeed," answered Calista, solemnly. "I promise you, Miss Meeks, I
never will. Now, can I do anything else for you? For I suppose I should
be going."

"Only hand me my Bible from the table. Thank you. Oh, my love, believe
me, if you have trouble, as you say, this is the only source of
comfort. I should die without it, or go mad. There, there, God bless
you! Go."

"Who would have thought,—" said Calista, as, having obtained Miss
McPherson's permission, she assumed Miss Meeks's place in the little
school-room, and called the children to their lessons—"who would have
thought that I, of all people, should be Miss Meeks's deputy?"



CHAPTER EIGHTH.

MARY.

"WHERE have you been all the morning?" asked Mary Settson, as she met
Calista just after the noon recess was proclaimed. "I have not had a
sight of you."

"You would never guess," said Calista. "I don't know how to believe it
myself."

Calista spoke gayly. She felt in better spirits than she had done for a
long time. Anything like a quarrel was always an annoyance to her; and
she was very much pleased at having at last made friends with poor Miss
Meeks.

Then she had thoroughly enjoyed her hour and a half of teaching. Every
one likes to be of use, not to say of consequence. The little girls
had been very good and orderly. They had read and spelled well, and
recited their small portion of Pinnock's "Catechism" without a mistake;
and Calista had rewarded them with the story of King Alfred learning
to read and afterward watching the cakes. She had a great talent for
narration, and had the pleasure of seeing her small audience listening
with rapt attention, and of hearing a universal cry of:

"Oh, please, Miss Stanfield, go on. Tell us some more."

She had promised another story "some time;" and had promised to tell
Miss McPherson and Miss Meeks how good they had been. So teacher and
pupils had parted with mutual satisfaction.

"I am not good at guessing," said Mary.

"Well—but don't look incredulous, however strange my tale may appear—I
have been sitting upon the throne of Miss Meeks and wielding her
sceptre for a full hour and a half. In other words, I have been keeping
order and hearing lessons in the little school-room. I—even I, myself.
Think of that!"

Mary did think of it, and it did not please her. For the last year
she had been used to being called upon to hear the little ones on
emergencies; and though she was not fond of teaching, and often
complained of the trouble, she did not dislike the consequence it gave
her any more than did Calista. So it came to pass that there was some
sharps in her tone as she said:

"How in the world did that happen? I should say you were the last one
in the school likely to be called on to help Miss Meeks. I thought you
had a quarrel only this morning."

"So we had, and that was exactly the way the wonderful event came to
pass."

"You must speak more plainly if you want me to understand you."

"Well, it happened even so: Miss Meeks and I did have—well, not just a
quarrel, but an outcome, as Miss Jessy says. It began with Antoinette
in the first place, who called Miss Meeks to take her part, which she
did, and scolded me as usual. I was vexed, and answered her back. Miss
McPherson said I was rude—or, what was still worse, she made me say
so,—" continued Calista, laughing and blushing—"and sent me to Miss
Meeks's room to apologize. I found the poor thing very ill, and all but
fainting away with a pain in her side, or something of the sort. She
would not let me call any one, and I waited on her as well as I could,
till she was better.

"But she felt very faint and weak after the pain, and so I persuaded
her to keep quiet till dinner, and let me hear the little girls. She
said I might if Miss McPherson was willing. So I asked her, and she
said I might. The children were very good and said their lessons
nicely, and I rewarded them with the very new and original narration
of King Alfred burning the oat-cakes, with which they were as hugely
delighted as if nobody had heard it before. And, in fact, though it
is hard to believe it, I suppose a story is new to every child that
hears it for the first time;" with which original reflection Calista
concluded her own story.

"Well, I must say, I think it was odd in Miss McPherson to send you,"
said Mary, in a tone which trembled a little in spite of herself. "I
wonder what I could have done to displease her?"

"Nothing, I presume," answered Calista, in surprise. "Why should you
think so?"

"Because she has always asked me to hear the scholars in the little
room before, and I don't see why she should choose some one else."

"Why, goosie, because I went to her. Miss Meeks told me to ask her,
and of course she said yes. Besides, you were busy, and I was not. I
learned all my lessons before I came to school. What could be more
natural?"

"I don't believe it was that," said Mary, her voice shaking more and
more. "She is displeased about something. I am sure I have always done
my best with the little girls. If I have not told them stories and
amused them, I have tried to have them learn, and it is very hard to
have anybody put over my head without giving me any reason." Mary was
fairly crying.

"Mary, you are too silly for anything," said Calista, vexed for
the moment. "Nobody has been put over your head. Don't you see how
naturally it all happened? Suppose I had asked Miss McPherson, and she
had said, 'No, I prefer Miss Settson should do it;' do you think I
should cry about it? Not I. I should just have thought, 'Mary has had
more experience; it is natural Miss McPherson should prefer her.'"

"That is just what I say. I have had more experience."

"You had not more experience when you began, I suppose. There must be a
first time. I dare say Miss McPherson thought it would be a good lesson
for me."

"I am sure Miss McPherson would not have chosen some one else unless
she had something against me," continued Mary. "She acted as if she had
yesterday. She praised Mary Burns's work up to the skies, though it
only a rug made of bits out of her father's shop, and all she said to
mine was, 'Yes, very pretty, my dear.'"

"Well, you know Mary is poor, and has very little to give, and I do
think her rug is wonderful, considering what it is made of. It looks
like a bit of Persian carpet. I have always noticed what a good eye
Mary has for colors. She would paint better than Clary Whitman if she
had the chance to learn."

"Oh, yes, she is the eighth wonder of the world, no doubt! But I don't
think I shall send anything to the table, or go to the meetings any
more. If my work is not worth noticing, it certainly is not worth
selling."

"Look here, Mary," said Calista, gravely, "you are always lecturing me
about loving the world, and now I am going to lecture you a little.
You think a great deal too much about being praised—about having
people think well of you. Now it seems to me that the praise of men,
as Elizabeth Howell says, is just as much one of the things of the
world that we are not to love, as money or fine clothes. Of course we
all like the good opinion of our friends; but when it comes to being
distressed because somebody else is asked to do something, or because
some other person's work is praised more than one's own, why I think it
is time to take a look and see where one is going."

Mary was silent, and twisted her chair. She felt the words were true,
and she did not like them any the better for that. She had always
assumed a certain superiority over her friend, to which Calista had
humbly assented, and it was not agreeable to be taken to task in her
turn.

"Come, don't let's spoil our recess," said Calista, in a lighter tone;
"you know you promised to teach me the fan stitch, and I brought my
needles on purpose."

"You had better ask Mary Burns to show you," answered Mary, in a tone
which was meant to be dignified, but was only stiff; "I don't know that
I care about teaching any one who has such an opinion of me as you seem
to entertain. I thought I had one friend at least in the school, but
it seems I was mistaken!" And Mary's wounded feelings and temper—two
things which are apt to get very much mixed up together—found vent in a
flood of tears.

"Nonsense!" said Calista, vexed in her turn. "Mary, you are too absurd.
You are always lecturing me, and I am content you should; but the
minute I say a word to you, you flare up in this way. I should think I
had enough to put up with, without your turning on me. I don't know but
that is the 'spirit of Christ,'" she concluded, alluding to the verse
Mary had repeated in the morning, "but I must say it does not seem much
like it to me."

And with this parting shot, which was a sufficiently sharp one, Calista
went away and left Mary to her own reflections.

"Dear me!" she said to herself, in some natural impatience. "It does
seem as if I never could be comfortable half an hour together. Who
would ever have thought of her taking matters in that way!"

If Calista was uncomfortable, Mary was still more so. She was really
trying very hard to be a Christian, but on this particular point she
had never learned to know herself, or to call things by their right
names. She had often said to herself that she did not love money, or
fine clothes, or gay amusements—all of which was true—therefore she
did not love the world. But "the world" takes a great many shapes,
and creeps in at a great many holes and corners; and whatever petty
disguises it may put on, it is the same world still, the intimate ally
and friend of "the flesh and the devil."

Praise was Mary's "world"—appreciation she called it. She loved to
stand well in the eyes of other people, to be called the best scholar
and the neatest worker in school, the model member of the catechism
class in church. She liked to know that she was pointed out as an
example of early piety by the pastor, as a good sister and daughter at
home. She loved the praise of men, and that love, as it always does,
was beginning to spring up and bear fruit—poison fruit, which, if the
vine was not plucked up by the roots, threatened to choke the word and
make it unfruitful, as surely as the deceitfulness of riches would have
done. It was coming to that with her that she did not like to have any
one praised but herself—that she felt all commendation of another as so
much taken from her own share.

Miss McPherson had praised Mary's homely work more than her own
exquisite netted fringe. That very morning, in the French class, she
had told Anabella Adair that she had improved very much in accent and
style, and had only included herself in the "very well, my dears,"
addressed to the whole class. And now, to crown all, she had given the
charge of the little ones to Calista, who had not only taught them,
but interested and amused them as well. No doubt the ungrateful little
things were saying at that moment that they liked Miss Stanfield better
than Miss Settson—very likely they would say so to Miss Meeks and Miss
McPherson. Mary almost felt as though she could never come to school or
speak to Calista again.

John Bunyan, with that wonderful experimental knowledge which seems
like inspiration, says that one leak is enough to sink a ship, and one
sin to destroy a sinner. There is no doubt at all that one known and
acknowledged sin is enough to undermine the Christian character of the
best saint that ever lived, if it is indulged or harbored after its
true character comes to be known.

Mary had, for some time, had an uneasiness as to this very matter. She
felt that here was her weak point, but she did not like to examine
and make sure of it, which was as wise as if a ship's captain should
refuse to examine a suspected spar or defective cable. She was strong
everywhere else, and she did not consider that the weakest link—not the
strongest—measures the strength of the chain. Even now she was made
aware that she had been unkind to Calista and unjust to Miss McPherson,
but she would not acknowledge to herself that the root of the trouble
lay in her inordinate love of praise. No, Calista had provoked her and
Miss McPherson had taken pains to mortify her, but it was her duty to
overlook it, and she would do so by treating Calista just as usual,
even by offering to show her the fan stitch—no, she would not do that,
either; but if Calista asked her again, she would not refuse.

Smoothing matters over in this fashion was not the way to attain peace,
and Mary was destined to have a still harsher lesson.

Calista ran up to Miss Meeks's room and tapped lightly, opening the
door in answer to the summons from within. She found Miss Meeks up and
dressed. She looked pale and worn, but declared herself quite able to
come down stairs.

"I thought I would just tell you that the little girls behaved very
well and said their lessons nicely," said Calista.

"Did they? I am very glad. I think they are usually good, though I fear
I am sometimes sharp with them. Did they say their English kings?"

"Yes, ma'am, nicely; and I told them about King Alfred and the
oat-cakes, to reward them. Was that right?"

"Quite right. I often wish I possessed the talent for narration
which some people have. It is quite invaluable in dealing with young
children. Will you please fasten my dress, my dear? I am glad you
succeeded in interesting the children," continued Miss Meeks. "I shall,
perhaps, ask you to help me again, some day. Miss Settson is very good
and conscientious, but she has an unfortunate manner with children."

"I am sure I shall be glad to help you at any time, Miss Meeks," said
Calista, as they went down stairs together. "But I am surprised to hear
you say that about Mary. I thought she did everything better than any
one else—let alone poor me."

"It is not to be denied that she does a great many things better than
'poor you,'" replied Miss Meeks, with a smile, which was not at all
severe this time. "Keeping her desk in order and copying her exercises,
among others. But different people have different gifts, you know."

"I am sure I am glad if teaching is one of mine," observed Calista. "It
seems the only way for a lady to earn a living nowadays."

"Surely there will be no necessity for that," said Miss Meeks. "I
supposed you were your aunt's heir as a matter of course."

"Oh dear, no," answered Calista. "My aunt barely tolerates my
existence. I should not be one bit surprised at her throwing me on my
own resources any day. So, Miss Meeks, I shall be glad if you will let
me help you at any time, not only because I like to be of use, but
because I like to learn all I can."

Unluckily, this speech was overheard by Antoinette Diaments. Antoinette
hated Calista with all the venom of a small and mean nature, because
of the scrape she had gotten into about Tessy's change; though Calista
had nothing to do with the transaction, beyond being an accidental
witness of it. Moreover, Antoinette considered Miss Meeks as her own
particular property, and had hitherto, as we have said, succeeded in
keeping that lady very much in the dark as to her real character. She,
therefore, instantly resolved to "put a spoke in Calista's wheel," as
she elegantly expressed it.

"Well, Calista, I should think you would be ashamed to ask such a thing
of Miss Meeks, after the way you were talking and laughing about her
not half an hour ago."

Miss Meeks's pale cheek flushed, and she cast one of her old suspicious
glances at Calista.

"Antoinette, what do you mean?" exclaimed Calista. "I have not said a
word to any one but Mary Settson about Miss Meeks."

"Just so; and you were laughing with her about Miss Meeks's throne and
sceptre. I heard you myself."

"You can ask Mary about it, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "Here she is.
Mary, Antoinette says I was laughing about Miss Meeks to you this
morning. Is that true?"

Calista spoke with a trust in Mary's uprightness as firm as her trust
in the ground she walked on. But even the ground is sometimes shaken.
Mary had opened the gate of her heart to the world, and the world in
turn opened to its friend the devil. If the ground had, indeed, opened
under her feet, Calista could not have been more astounded than she was
when Mary answered:

"I don't know, of course, whether you were laughing at her or not. You
certainly were laughing when you told me that you had been sitting in
her throne and wielding her sceptre, and when you told how you went to
her room and found her sick."

Calista's face grew pale, and then flushed with honest indignation and
wounded feeling.

"Mary!"

It was all she said. Miss Meeks looked keenly from one to another.
She was clear-sighted enough when not blinded by prejudice or by the
irritability of suppressed suffering, and she knew Mary's weakness far
better than did Mary herself.

"I shall believe what you say, Calista," said she. "Did you mean to
turn me into ridicule or not?"

"No, Miss Meeks, I never thought of such a thing—never." said Calista,
with emphasis. "I did use those words, as any one might; but I no more
thought of turning you into ridicule, or above all laughing about your
illness, than I should think of laughing about my own dead mother."

"I believe you," said Miss Meeks. "You have your faults, but I never
knew untruth to be one of them. To show you that I trust you, I shall,
if agreeable to you, request Miss McPherson to allow you to sit with me
in the small room this afternoon and oversee the children's work."

"Thank you, Miss Meeks; I shall like it very much," said Calista, and
she turned away and followed the teacher into the dining-room, without
so much as looking at Mary.

She usually enjoyed the school dinners, which, if plain, were abundant
and dealt out without stint; but to-day her roast mutton and cherry
pie tart seemed to choke her. That Mary should use her so! She did not
wonder at Antoinette; but Mary—Mary, whom she had looked upon as the
very pattern and exemplar of all that was good, and loved with the
passionate love of a first friendship. It seemed to Calista as if she
would never believe in anybody again.

If Calista was sorrowful, Mary herself was utterly wretched. At first
she had tried to excuse herself to herself—to gloss the matter over as
she had done with a good many things lately; but it would not do. She
felt that she had told a lie, and meant to tell one, though every word
she had said had been literally true. Calista had used these words,
and had laughed as she did so; but Mary knew well enough that she had
conveyed a false impression, and meant to convey one; that Calista had
not laughed at Miss Meeks, but on the contrary had spoken of her with
the greatest kindness.

Ever since she had first been awakened in religious matters, Mary had
cultivated the habit (and a most useful and excellent one it is) of
retiring a few minutes at noon for self-examination and prayer. As she
entered her room this day, she was strongly tempted to omit her usual
exercise, and hurry down stairs; but the habit was too strong for her.
She sat down in her usual place, and almost mechanically opened her
Bible.

   "If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy
brother hath aught against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar,
and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and
offer thy gift." (Matt. 5:23, 24.)

Mary shut her book almost impatiently, and opened again.

   "Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any
man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him." (1 John
2:15.)

There was not much comfort in that, either. She wished to find some
"promise" on which she might dwell and meditate or imagine herself into
a state of complacency; but One was dealing with her who would allow no
such comfortable self-deception. She was, as it were, set down before
the mirror of truth and made to see herself, and that in despite of
her will to the contrary. What had she done? She had been envious of
another's pleasure and honor, and she had allowed herself to indulge in
a slanderous misrepresentation to injure her best friend, because that
friend had been accidentally preferred before her. Nor was she allowed
to take refuge in the idea that she had been overcome by a sudden and
irresistible temptation. She knew better. Her fall had not been sudden,
as indeed such falls seldom are.

Looking back, she could see that she had been preparing the way for
just such a failure. It was true, as Calista said: she had allowed
herself to indulge in that envy which eats like a canker. She had not
liked to hear any one praised but herself for a long time past. She had
done her work in school and at home, not for her Lord and Master, but
that she might be seen of men.

The same was true of her charitable work among the poor children whom
she taught and helped to clothe. She had been provoked downright when
Mrs. Lee showed her the pretty and useful little dress which Belle
Adair had made out of one of her own for poor Chloe Jackson's youngest
girl, and she turned scarlet as she remembered how she had taken
occasion to say that Belle was a very gay girl who would never listen
to a serious word.

And now she had wounded Calista to the heart, and disgraced herself
in the eyes of her teacher and herself, all for what? Because Calista
had been asked to do, and had done well, something which she did not
like, and never undertook willingly. Calista had been praised, that was
enough.

"Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" said Mary, almost aloud, and
with bitter tears of grief and self-abasement. She opened her Bible and
read again:

   "Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do
the first works." (Rev. 2:5.)

And again:

   "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is
not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive
us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:8,
9.)

Clearly this was the right and only way to peace. Mary knelt down and
then and there confessed this her besetting sin, asked for deliverance
and forgiveness, and that cleansing promised to all who seek it. She
did not deceive herself now, but called things by right, plain Bible
names—envy, emulation, slander, detraction.

There is an old fairy tale found in almost every language, which has
always seemed to me to shadow forth a great truth. It is that of a man
beset by a demon or malign imp of some sort, for whom he is obliged to
perform all sorts of hard tasks and pay all sorts of penalties, till
he succeeds in discovering the true name of his tormentor, after which
the thing has no more power, but flies discomfited. Mary had called her
demons by their right names, and their power was broken for that time,
at least.

She was still on her knees when she was interrupted by a knock at the
door and a call of:

"Miss Mary!"

"Yes, Miranda; what is it?" asked Mary, without opening the door.

"Oh, nothing, only your pa and Miss Alice have gone out to old Mrs.
Skovell's, at Greenwich, and won't be back till night. I thought maybe
you wouldn't care about much dinner alone, so I just got you a cup of
chocolate and a strawberry short-cake and some sandwiches. But I can
cook some meat if you'd rather have it."

"No, thank you, Miranda; I would rather have the chocolate than
anything. I am in a hurry to get back to school."

Mary did not feel like eating, but she took a cup of chocolate and a
piece of the tempting short-cake, to spare Miranda's feelings, and
hastened back to school. She went straight to the little school-room,
where she knew she would find Miss Meeks. That lady looked up, when she
entered, in surprise and some displeasure. She did not like to have her
hour of leisure interrupted.

"Miss Meeks," said Mary, in a voice which trembled a good deal, "I have
come to tell you that what I said about Calista this morning was not
true. She did use those words, but there was no disrespect in the way
she used them, and I am sure she meant none. She was very much pleased
because she succeeded so well, and I—" Mary's voice faltered, but she
steadied it and went on—"I was provoked because she succeeded, and
envious and jealous of her being praised."

"So I saw," said Miss Meeks. "I am very glad you have come to a sense
of your fault, Mary. I hope it will be a lesson to you to check the
beginnings of a spirit of detraction, and I doubt not it will. I shall
have to ask your help this afternoon, after all, for I am not feeling
well."

"I am sure I shall be very glad to help you," answered Mary, swallowing
a great lump of pride which would rise in her throat at that "after
all." "But where is Calista?"

"Oh, she has gone home. Her aunt sent for her. I felt sorry for her,
for I think she anticipated something not very pleasant. I fancy her
aunt is an odd-tempered woman."

"Odd-tempered is no name for it," said Mary.

"Oh, well, I am sorry for her. I have had some experience. I don't know
how it is," added Miss Meeks, musingly, "but all my life long it has
been my fate to live with odd-tempered people."

Mary could not help thinking that this fate was one likely to follow
Miss Meeks as long as she retained the infirmities of mortality; but
she said nothing, and busied herself with the basket of patchwork on
which the youngest children were learning to use their fingers. She had
had too plain and too recent a view of her own faults and infirmities
to be very hard on those of other people.



CHAPTER NINTH.

THE STORM BREAKS.

MISS MEEKS was right. It was with no pleasant anticipations that
Calista took her seat in the rickety chaise which her aunt had sent for
her. Old David, who drove, was evidently in a state of deep and dire
offence, and nothing could be got out of him except that Miss Priscy
was in one of her tantrums, and if Chloe was a-going to stand such
goings on any longer, he wasn't.

Calista alighted and went straight up the back stairs to her own room,
hoping for a few minutes of solitude in which to collect her spirits.
She was disappointed. The door of a certain store-room opposite her
own, which was usually kept fast locked, was open, and in it stood
Miss Priscilla, clearly in a "tantrum" of the worst sort. Her face was
flushed, her cap half off her head, and her gray hair all in disorder.
Opposite her stood Miss Druett, more disturbed in appearance than was
at all usual with her. Miss Priscilla faced round as Calista came
across the passage, and caught her by the arm with a grip that seemed
to crush the very bone.

"So, here she is," she said, through her set teeth. "This fine young
lady, who prowls about the house, prying and meddling, to see what she
can steal. A worthy daughter of Richard Stanfield and his low-born
scheming wife!"

"Take your hand off my arm, Aunt Priscilla!" said Calista, in a voice
which sounded strange to herself. "Do you hear me?"

Miss Priscilla released her arm; but it was only to pour out a renewed
flood of abuse, directed to Calista herself, her father and mother,
Miss McPherson, and every one else for whom Calista had any regard,
or with whom she had any connection. At last, as she paused to take
breath, Calista said coolly,—

"Well, now, I should like to know what all this is about?"

"About!" Miss Priscilla fairly gasped. "You dare to ask such a
question?"

"It does not take any particular bravery that I know of," answered
Calista, whose own blood was up by this time. "When one sees an old
lady raving like a mad woman, one naturally likes to know the reason,
if she has any."

"Calista!" said Miss Druett, warningly.

"Tell me, you—you spy and traitor—did you not go into the back parlor
and pull over the book-cases, and into my father's room? Tell me this
instant. Dare you deny it?"

"Why should I deny it?" asked Calista. "Where was the harm? I was here
alone, and I went to look for something to amuse myself with, and to
see what there was in the house."

"And what did you carry off? What did you steal?"

"As it happened, there was nothing in the book-case I looked into
that was worth stealing, unless it were this old working-case," said
Calista, producing the article in question from her pocket. "That has a
good pair of small scissors in it, and I want a pair, so I took them to
use. There they are, if you want them."

Miss Priscilla snatched the case from her hand.

"So, you took it to school, did you? Well, you won't take anything else
to school very soon. You have had all the schooling you will get for
some time, my fine lady. I will find you plenty of work at home."

Miss Priscilla turned into the little store-room, and began taking down
the dusty, moth-eaten garments with which the walls were plentifully
hung. Calista followed her into the room, reckless of consequences, for
she had caught sight of something which made her forget everything,
even her aunt's rage. The something was a pile of two or three
trunks—old-fashioned heavy leather portmanteaus—marked on the end
"Calista Folsom."

Calista remembered them on the instant. They were the very trunks Miss
Malvina had shown her, and on which she had made the little girl spell
out the name, so many years ago.

"My mother's trunks!" exclaimed Calista, feeling as if she must have
them, whether or no. "My own mother's things! Oh, Aunt Priscilla, let
me have them, and I will do anything for you—anything you tell me!"

"Oh, you will!" said Miss Priscilla, with a malicious smile. "You are
very submissive all at once. I fancy, before we have done, you will do
what I tell you without any trunks."

"For shame, Priscilla!" said Miss Druett's deep voice. "How can you
expose yourself so? The child has done no harm. She has not even been
disobedient, that I see, though she may have been indiscreet. Let her
have her mother's trunks—she has the best right to them—and say no more
about the matter."

"How dare you!" said Miss Priscilla, turning furiously upon her. "You
are no better than she. Do you think I don't know you? Don't I know how
you fell in love with Richard Stanfield and tried to get him, though he
cared no more for you than for his old shoes, and so you take the part
of his girl now. You shall leave my house. Yes, all of you. I won't
have such a crew of spies and thieves about me any longer."

Miss Druett looked straight at Priscilla all the time she was speaking,
without uttering a word or moving a muscle of her countenance. Then she
said quite calmly, without a tremor in her singular, musically harsh
voice:

"Very well, Priscilla; you shall not tell me twice to leave your house
after all these years. But I advise you to think again before you
disgrace yourself without remedy."

So saying, she went into her own room and shut the door.

Miss Priscilla looked after her a moment. Then she pushed Calista into
her own room, and threw after her a heap of the musty-smelling woollen
garments which she had taken down from the nails.

"There is some fancy work for you, since you want amusement," said she.
"You shall cut every one of them into carpet-rags before you leave that
room."

She closed the door, and Calista heard her lock that and the room
opposite before she went down stairs.

Calista, though she had been so cool with her aunt, was in a tempest of
rage and mortification. She had never met with any personal violence
before, except a box on the ear now and then when she was a little
girl. And now to be so insulted and degraded before the servants;
to hear her father and mother abused and slandered; to see her own
mother's property, and not to be allowed to touch it,—it was too much.
Her head swam, her eyes seemed full to bursting, and she felt as though
she could have killed Aunt Priscilla on the spot. A burst of tears came
at last to her relief. She cried passionately for a long time, till her
mood calmed itself. And she began to consider her situation and think
what she had better do.

Look at it as she would, she could not see that she had done anything
very wrong. True, she had put the working-case in her pocket, but she
certainly had no intention of stealing it; and though she had been
tempted to take the gold pieces, she had not touched them with her
little finger. She did not feel that she had wronged Miss Priscilla in
any way. Neither could she feel under any obligation to her. Kindness
she had had none, and as to support, it was clear from Mr. Settson's
story that her grandfather had intended to give her father his share
of the estate, which, therefore, owed her much more than the bare
maintenance she had received from it.

She felt that she could not stay longer with Miss Priscilla if Miss
Druett went away, and that she would go Calista was pretty sure. At
last she made up her mind. She would go to Mr. Settson, lay the whole
matter before him, and be guided by his advice. At another time she
would have looked forward with pleasure to residing in his family, but
Mary's conduct in the morning had thrown a cloud over that prospect.
Perhaps Miss McPherson would let her live in the school for the help
she would give Miss Meeks and Miss Jessie. Miss Priscilla could not
keep her shut up always, and as soon as she was at liberty, she would
hasten to town, lay the case before her best friends, and be guided by
their opinion.

Having settled this matter in her mind, Calista felt comfortable. She
bathed her eyes, arranged her hair and her dress, and looked about for
something wherewith to divert herself. She could not perform the task
of cutting carpet-rags, even if she had been so disposed, for the very
sufficient reason that she had no scissors; so she hung the garments
away in a disused closet, after examining the pockets of the coats, in
one of which she actually found an old sixpence.

"Really, what a treasure!" said Calista. "I think I will hand it over
to Aunt Priscilla; or shall I buy a lead pencil with it?"

There was nothing else to be found except an old pocketbook, which
contained nothing whatever.

She took down her treasured "Cecelia" from its niche; but even the
story of the silver gauze and the trouble resulting from its purchase
could not fix her attention, so she took out her knitting, and found a
more effectual diversion in the intricacies of feather stitch.

Calista had almost forgotten her trouble for the moment, when the door
was unlocked, and Chloe put her head into the room.

"You are to go down to supper, Miss Calista, if that is any great
privilege," said she.

"Who says so?" asked Calista.

"Miss Priscilla. She says you are to come down now. Reckon she's afraid
to stay alone any longer. Well, I know one thing—if I didn't believe in
the Lord, I wouldn't be so dreadful afraid of the devil."

"Perhaps you would, now," said Calista, as she took up her work and
prepared to go down stairs. "I rather think those who fear the Lord
most are just those who have fewest fears of anything else."

"I reckon you are about right there," said Chloe. "Anyhow, I know one
thing: I ain't a-going to stay here much longer. But I must go and get
supper."

Calista descended to the sitting-room, wondering what kind of a
reception she should meet, and determining if her aunt laid hands on
her again, to leave the house at once. But Miss Priscilla's mood had
worked itself out for the time.

"Well, Miss Stanfield—so you have condescended to come down?" said she,
in the bitter, sarcastic tone in which she usually spoke to her niece.
"And, pray, how many carpet-rags have you cut this afternoon."

"None at all," answered Calista, concisely.

"Oh! I suppose such work is not fine enough for your mother's daughter."

"Neither my mother's daughter nor any one else can cut carpet-rags
without scissors, and you know very well I have none," answered Calista.

"Oh! Is it possible? But if you had them, no doubt you would not use
them. Of course, Miss Folsom's daughter would not stoop to anything
so ungenteel. She must keep her hands white and soft, so that she may
catch a rich husband, like her mother."

"Miss Stanfield," said Calista firmly, "if you say another word about
my mother, I will leave this house and never enter it again while you
are in it!"

Miss Priscilla looked at Calista, as she stood tall and stately in her
young beauty, and seemed to think she had gone far enough.

"Don't be a fool, child," said she. "Sit down and be quiet! Who cares
for your mother?"

"I do!" said Calista, firmly. "And I will not hear her abused."

"Well, well, sit down! What is that in your hand?"

"The knitting I am doing for Miss McPherson."

Miss Priscilla gave a kind of grunt, and the two sat in silence till
Chloe came in to set the table.

Now, setting a tea-table is, in itself considered, an act of a peaceful
and even softening nature; but Chloe converted it into a declaration of
war by her manner of performing the same. She reproached Miss Stanfield
with the bread, upbraided her with the butter, defied her with the
milk, and, so to speak, threw at her head every article she put down.
She knew that Miss Stanfield detested anything like a clatter, and she
hit every spoon against every other spoon and every dish against every
other dish on the table. She made separate journeys to the kitchen for
everything she wanted, and slammed more doors than would have been
supposed to be in the famous palace of the one-eyed Calender.

"Supper is ready!" said Chloe at last, when she could by no possibility
spin her preparations out any longer.

"Well, why don't you ring the bell, then?" asked Miss Priscilla,
fretfully. "Where is Miss Druett?"

"Miss Druett ain't a-coming down!" answered Chloe.

"Not coming down! Why not?"

"She says she is too busy. And I have took her tea up to her."

"Why, what is she doing?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"She is a-taking of her things out of her drawers and a-looking of them
over, and a-laying of them in her trunks," answered Chloe, with great
deliberation and an evident enjoyment of her words and of the annoyance
produced by them. "David and me has brought her trunks down out of
the garret, and David is a-going to take the biggest of 'em over to
Cohansey to be mended when he goes in the morning. And I have took her
tea up to her room, and she is a-drinking of it there, so there is no
use of waiting for her."

Miss Priscilla took her place at the tea-board with an impatient—"Well,
there, you may go!"

And Chloe retired, firing off another volley of what Mr. Sydney Smith
calls "wooden swearing," on her way to her own quarters.

Miss Priscilla did not like to make her own tea, and that for an odd
reason. She liked it very sweet, and she never could bring herself to
put in as much sugar as she wanted. However, she poured out the weak
beverage and handed a cup to Calista, who received it with a formal
"Thank you."

No more was said till, to her surprise, Miss Priscilla asked Calista if
she would have another cup of tea.

"If you please," said Calista, with equally formal politeness,
determined to give no opening for another outbreak if she could help it.

Not another word was spoken.

Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap, and Calista was
about to leave the room when she was recalled by a—

"Don't go. Sit here with your work," which she could not but think had
something rather imploring in its tone.

"I wonder whether she really is afraid to stay alone," thought Calista,
as she resumed her seat.

She knitted in silence till it was too dark to see; and then, leaning
on the window-seat, she meditated on the various things which had
happened during the day.

She was gaining the mastery over her own spirit. Mary had treated her
not only unkindly, but, what was much worse, treacherously; for she
argued with herself that it was impossible for Mary so to misunderstand
her as to think that she was really laughing at Miss Meeks. Mary had
been at once her idol and her pattern for nearly two years; a pattern
unapproachable in its perfection, it was true, but still her model
of all that was good and lovely. And now that idol was fallen—a very
Dagon—in helpless ruin, and the fair model was chipped and stained—no
more to be a model, but only a sad warning. As Calista thought of it,
in her girlish exaggeration and passion, she said to herself, more than
once, "I wish she had died, like poor little Julia Lawrence, last year."

Calista did not know what death meant, any more than any other young
creature who has only seen it at a distance. It is curious, but, I
believe, quite true, that young people are apt to think of death just
in this way, as an easy method of escape. She did not realize what
it would be to have no Mary anywhere within reach; no possibility of
explanation or "making up;" no possibility of finding Mary any more,
though she should go all over the world to look for her.

She was but a child, after all, with a child's experiences. Still, as
she thought of the dead girl, with whom she had had a merry game only
the day before she had seen her laid out on her narrow white bed, her
heart grew soft toward her friend, and she said to herself that she
would try to forgive Mary.

"I am sure she will be sorry when she thinks about it," she said to
herself. "I need forgiveness enough myself, for that matter; and Mary
has done nothing worse than I was tempted to do. To be sure, I was not
overcome by the temptation; but that was no thanks to me."

And then Calista went back to her childish days, and began to recall
all she could remember about them and Miss Malvina.

"I am sure those are mother's trunks. I remember Miss Malvina making
me spell out the name on the end—'Calista Folsom'—and telling me that
it was my dear mother's name, and that those were her things. Oh, if I
could only get possession of them! I mean to ask Mr. Settson if there
is anything to be done. There, Aunt Priscilla is waking up."

In fact, Miss Priscilla roused herself and Chloe brought in the candles
at one and the same moment.

"Druey—why, where is Druey?" asked Miss Priscilla, rubbing her eyes.
"Chloe, where is Miss Druett?"

"She is up in her room, and she ain't a-coming down to-night, either,"
was Chloe's answer, as she slapped down first the candlesticks and then
the snuffer-tray. "I've took her up a candle, half an hour ago."

"But she must come down. What does she think I am going to do all the
evening? Go up to her, Chloe, and tell her—no, ask her if she isn't
coming down to play cribbage."

"Oh, well, I can go, of course," said Chloe, "but it won't do any good."

She departed on her errand, accordingly, and returned with the message
that Miss Druett was very tired and must be excused to-night.

Miss Priscilla fretted, and all but cried, like a child deprived of a
plaything.

"And you are no good—no good at all," she said to Calista. "I don't
suppose you could ever learn cribbage."

"I don't know, I am sure," answered Calista; and then, moved by a
feeling of compassion for which she could hardly account herself, she
added, "but I will try, Aunt Priscilla, if it will amuse you to teach
me."

Miss Priscilla seemed to think even the prospect of teaching Calista
better than no game at all, and the board was set out. But cribbage
is a difficult game to learn under the most favorable circumstances.
Perhaps Miss Priscilla was not a patient or skillful teacher, or
Calista was more than usually dull. Certain it is that after a short
trial, she abandoned the attempt in despair.

"There, it is of no use, I never could teach anybody anything. Put the
things away, child."

"I am sorry," said Calista, and she really was sorry to see the poor
withered, peevish woman deprived of one of the very few pleasures she
allowed herself; "perhaps if I were to try again—"

"No, no, never mind. Take your knitting. It is very good-natured of
you, though, I must allow."

Calista listened in amazement. It was literally the very first word of
commendation she had ever received Aunt Priscilla. She took up her work
again, and the two sat in silence till Miss Priscilla said, abruptly
but not angrily—

"Calista, what made you go into that room?"

"Only curiosity," answered Calista. "I was looking in the book-case,
and picked out some old books and papers to read. Then I tried the door
of grandfather's room and found it would open, so I went in to see what
was there."

"And what did you see there? Come, tell me," said Miss Priscilla,
almost coaxingly.

"Surely, aunt, you know what is there as well as I do, or better."

"Well, never mind that. Tell me what you saw."

"A great many moths, for one thing," said Calista; "the carpet is full
of them. And I saw a picture which I suppose was one of grandfather's
wives; a fair woman, with light hair rolled on a cushion."

"Yes, that is your grandmother. Well?"

"And I saw another picture, a miniature of a young boy, which I suppose
was my father."

"Well, and what else?" asked Miss Priscilla, as Calista paused. "My
father's desk is there; did you look into it?"

"I did," answered Calista, briefly, determined to tell the truth at all
risks.

"Well, what did you find? Don't be afraid to tell me."

"I am not afraid," answered Calista. "I saw a good many old papers—I
don't know what they were. Then I saw an old seal lying in one of the
pigeon-holes, and took it up to look at it. Then I put my hand back in
the hole to see if there was anything else, and in so doing I touched
the spring that opened the cupboard door where the gold pieces are.
Then I shut it all up and went up to my own room."

"Gold!" said Miss Priscilla, sitting up straight and startled in her
chair. "What gold?"

"The gold pieces in the little cupboard, aunt. Did not you know they
were there?"

"I! No, indeed! I have never touched a thing in the desk since my
father died—never been into the room since he was buried. How much gold
was there?"

"I don't know; I did not count it: six or seven gold pieces—English, I
should think."

"Where is the cupboard?" demanded Miss Priscilla, her eyes glittering
and her face flushed with excitement.

"In the desk, as I told you," answered Calista; "it is in one side of
the desk, over the little drawers and shelves. Nobody would think it
was there."

"Then I dare say there is one on the other side just like it. I suppose
you did not look to see?"

"No, I did not. When I saw the money, I did not wish to meddle any
further."

"Calista," said Miss Priscilla, in a low, trembling tone, and laying
her hand on Calista's arm, "you need not cut any carpet-rags, unless
you like."

"Thank you," said Calista, dryly.

"And—and you may go to school to-morrow, and—and the rest of the term,
if you will only go and bring me those gold pieces, and whatever else
you can find in your grandfather's desk."

"I would rather not, aunt," answered Calista, proudly. "There might
not be quite as many as I said, and then you would think I had stolen
them. And, by the way, here is a sixpence I found in the house this
afternoon."

Habit stretched out Miss Priscilla's lean fingers to the sixpence, and
greed of greater gain drew them back.

"You may keep the sixpence, child—only don't waste it—and perhaps I
will give you more some time. No, I won't think you stole anything.
Come, do go and bring that gold. It isn't safe. Some one else might
find it."

"Why not go yourself, aunt?" asked Calista, surprised at her aunt's
pertinacity. "I will hold the light for you, if that will do any good."

"No, no, I cannot, I dare not," quavered Miss Priscilla. "He might not
like it—but he would not mind you."

"He! Who?"

"Your grandfather, child. No, no, I can't go in, but you will go. Come,
now, I know you will."

"Very well, I will go," said Calista. "Even if my grandfather were
there, he has no reason to be angry with me. I have never gone against
his will, or kept from him anything he ought to have known. Let me take
the candle, and I will go."

Notwithstanding Calista's bold words, she could not restrain a tremor
when she found herself alone in the large, lofty, gloomy room. She
was, however, no coward to give way to groundless fear, superstitious
or otherwise. She set down her candle and opened the desk deliberately
enough and began her search for the secret spring. Still she could not
get rid of the feeling that some one or something was watching her.
She was sure she heard a subdued stir somewhere, and, glancing toward
the opening in the shutters, she felt almost certain that an eye was
looking down upon her.

She looked again—a straight, steady look. Nothing was to be seen, and
she smiled at her own fancy.

"What a goose I am!" she said to herself, as she found and touched the
spring which opened the secret cupboard.

The door flew open, and there lay the pieces as she had left them,
eight in number.

She felt all round the cupboard, but there was nothing more. Further
search, however, developed a corresponding recess on the other side,
containing another gold piece, a lady's old-fashioned gold watch, with
a heavy chain and seals, and two or three ornaments set with amethyst
and pearls—pretty, but of no great value.

Calista collected all in her handkerchief, and, assuring herself by a
hasty search that there was nothing more, she closed the desk and took
up her candle. At that moment she heard a slight rustle, and looking up
she saw, or fancied she saw, the same eye at the hole in the shutters
watching her movements. She walked straight toward the window, holding
up the candle, but there was nothing to be seen.

"It must have been a reflection in the glass, or perhaps a cat looking
in," she said to herself. "One might found a good story on it."

Miss Priscilla was sitting in an attitude of expectation, and started
nervously as Calista entered. She gave a childish cry of delight as
Calista laid the handkerchief open before her.

"You are a good girl, Calista—a very good girl!" said she, in a
fluttered manner. "Let me see—two, four, five; yes, eight guineas—and
that is your grandmother's watch. You shall have it when—when you are
old enough to wear it properly. School-girls don't wear watches, you
know."

"But you might let me keep it, aunt," said Calista, mischievously. "It
would be very convenient to have in my room."

"No, no! You would lose it; or some one might steal it. You shall have
it when—when you are old enough. And, mind you, don't tell any of the
school-girls about these things."

"Then I am to go to school again!" said Calista.

"Why, yes—yes. You can go to the end of this term, and then we will see
about it. Call Chloe; I want to go to bed. And don't you think you had
better let me have that sixpence to take care of for you?"



CHAPTER TENTH.

MISS DRUETT.

CERTAINLY Miss Priscilla was disturbed "by ordinary," as Miss Jessy
would have said, or she would never have gone up to bed leaving
Calista below. Usually she was driven off to her room with about as
much ceremony as a cow dismissed to her night's lodging. While she was
setting back her chair, and wondering whether she ought to go round and
see to the fastenings of doors and windows—a ceremony usually performed
by Miss Druett with great care and minuteness—Miss Druett herself
entered the room. She looked pale and tired, and Calista thought she
had been crying, but her eyes were as bright and her lips as firm and
resolute as ever.

"So you are here alone!" said she. "I heard Priscilla in her room, and
I thought I would come down and see to the fastenings."

"Thank you ever so much," said Calista. "I was just wondering what I
ought to do about it; and to tell you the truth," she added, lowering
her voice, "I did not quite fancy the task of going round alone, for I
could not help thinking there was someone prying about the house this
evening."

"Indeed! What reason had you for thinking so? But never mind now. You
shall tell me up stairs in my room, for I want a little talk with you
before you go to bed. Meantime, if you are not afraid, you can go round
with me and hold the light."

"Who will do this when you are gone?" said Calista, struck with the
thought as Miss Druett tried the fastening of bolt and bar in the great
dusky kitchen.

Miss Druett sighed. "I don't know who will do a great many things,"
said she. "I fear Priscilla will miss me more than she thinks."

"She missed you enough this evening, I am sure of that," said Calista.
"She almost cried because there was no one to play cribbage with her. I
offered to try to learn, but I think I must be very stupid, for I could
make nothing of it. However, she did not scold me, and it helped to
pass away a part of the time."

"Cribbage is a very intricate game, and Priscilla never had any faculty
of teaching. I think, Calista, if you are not tired, we will go through
the cellars—all at least that are unlocked. I should like to make sure
of them."

"What a castle of a place it is!" said Calista, holding up her light
and surveying the long gallery, floored with brick, and with heavy
doors opening on either hand. "It looks like something in an old
romance. What is in all these cellars, Miss Druett?"

"Nothing at all in most of them," answered Miss Druett. "There is some
silver plate and china packed away in this one, and a good deal of
valuable wine in that further one, at the end of the hall."

"Here is a door bricked up," said Calista. "What is that?"

"That is another small wine-cellar which has a history," answered Miss
Druett. "When your father was born, your grandfather had just received
a quantity of very fine Madeira, which had made the voyage to India. He
ordered two small casks to be placed in this cellar and built up as you
see, saying that one should be opened on his son's marriage, and the
other at the weaning of his eldest child."

"And it has staid there, undisturbed, all this time," said Calista.
"Father and grandfather are both gone, but the wine stays on. Perhaps
it is just as well there as anywhere else. I sometimes think so much
wine drinking is not very desirable."

"More people than you are beginning to think so," said Miss Druett.
"Well, as everything is safe for the night, we may leave these old
vaults to the centipedes and the efts." "Affets" she called them.

"See, there is one now!" said Calista, pointing out the little red
lizard running up the wall. "Are affets poison, Miss Druett?"

"I don't know, child. I never ate one," answered Miss Druett, absently.
Then, as Calista laughed,—"I do not know what I am saying. No, I don't
think any lizards are venomous, though, I dare say, they might bite,
like other creatures, if alarmed or provoked. Are you very tired? Do
you want to go to bed directly?"

"No, ma'am," answered Calista. "Not if I can do anything for you."

"Come into my room and sit down a little. I have something to say to
you, and I may not have another chance."

Calista obeyed.

The usually neat room was not disorderly—for nothing about Miss Druett
could be that—but disarranged. A great trunk, nearly filled, stood
open at the foot of the bed; a picture, which had always hung above
the fireplace, was taken down; and some books were missing from their
places. Miss Druett cleared a chair for Calista and took another
herself, but she did not seem in a hurry to begin the conversation.

"Are you really going, Miss Druett?" asked Calista, presently, seeing
that she did not speak.

"I have no choice, child, as things are at present. I have borne a
great deal from Priscilla, and if I staid, I should, no doubt, bear a
great deal more; but you must see yourself that I cannot remain in her
house after she has ordered me out of it."

"Of course not. I only wonder that you should have staid so long."

"Well, your grandfather and Priscilla's mother were kind to me when
I was an orphan and poor, and Priscilla and I were friends in youth.
Latterly I have had another reason for staying. You heard what your
aunt said, this morning, about your father." And Miss Druett blushed
a vivid carnation blush, which gave an almost unearthly lustre to her
dark eyes.

"I heard it," said Calista, "but I thought it was, perhaps, only one of
the spiteful things she says when she gets angry."

"It was true," said Miss Druett. "I am going to tell you a little of my
own history, Calista. It will help you to understand some things which
must have seemed strange to you."

"I was left alone in the world at a very early age. My mother, who was
a relation of the first Mrs. Stanfield, was clandestinely married to a
British officer of high rank and small principle, at the time that New
York was occupied by the British. When the city was evacuated, she was
left alone, with a young baby, and no dependence but the old father
whose heart she had broken, and who was sinking into his grave. General
Stanfield, then recently married, found her out in her darkest hour of
trouble. She was then alone in the world, sinking in a decline, having
sacrificed everything to a man who cared for nothing but the amusement
of a passing hour. Calista, whatever you do, never make a secret
marriage."

"I never mean to marry at all," pronounced Calista, with all the
confidence of sixteen.

"Of course not," said Miss Druett, dryly; "girls like you never do. To
go on with my story: General Stanfield sent his cousin and her child
home to the old house here. My mother revived with the change of air
and the generous diet, and lived till I was about five and Priscilla
twelve years old. Yes, there was all that difference in our ages, yet
we were constant companions and friends.

"It was not a happy household. Two people less fitted to live together
than General and Mrs. Stanfield were, perhaps, never united. He was
open-hearted, liberal to a fault, fond of gayety, and much given
to hospitality, both to rich and poor. She was proud and reserved,
standing much on her dignity, very strict and narrow in all her
notions, and as fond of saving as Priscilla herself. It was she who
taught Priscilla to regard economy as an end, not a means. To save
the consumption of a candle or an ounce of butter; to make a sixpence
stretch as far as a shilling; to keep the whole household on half
rations when the General went away—these were the triumphs of which she
was most proud, and for which she lived. I heard her say once that she
meant to save something for herself and Priscilla when the General was
dead. But she died long before him.

"Priscilla mourned her sincerely; but she found consolation in walking
in her mother's steps. But her reign was not a long one. In less than
two years the General brought home another bride, not so very much
older than Priscilla herself. She was a sweet, gentle, pretty creature,
but she was not a fool by any means. She had a great deal of steady
principle, and was very religious. She would go to church every Sunday,
and read the Bible, both alone and with the servants. At first she had
both the General and Priscilla against her; but latterly the General
was won to go to church with her once on Sunday; and, though he never
made any profession of Christianity, I think his feelings toward it
were a good deal softened before he died.

"A cousin of my poor mother's, who had a good and popular school in
Philadelphia, wrote, offering to give me an education, and General
Stanfield accepted the offer for me. I staid with her ten years; first
as pupil, then as teacher; till she died and the school was broken up.
My cousin ought to have left a good fortune; but she was unfortunate
and lost a good deal of money. The estate was divided, and all that
fell to my share was a small house, a little way out of Philadelphia,
and about a hundred dollars. Priscilla wrote for me to come to her,
and I came. At this time, Richard—your father—was a gay young man,
in college, coming home for his vacations, and turning his father
and every one else—except Priscilla—round his finger, by his winning
and coaxing ways. Even Priscilla herself was won by him while he was
present, though she hated him when he was away."

"Why did she hate him?" asked Calista.

"Principally because he was extravagant and your grandfather indulged
him in every whim. I cannot dwell on that part of it," said Miss
Druett, with that vivid blush again. "He never cared for me. I don't
suppose he ever imagined that I could care for him. I would have laid
down my life for him, but he did not want it. I never supposed that
even Priscilla suspected me till this afternoon. I had a long illness,
and when I rose up from it, I was a soured, hardened, elderly woman.

"Then came the news of your father's death. Priscilla kept it to
herself for a long time; your grandfather never knew it at all."

"Why didn't you tell him?" asked Calista.

"Because I did not know it myself. Priscilla always made a point
of going to the office herself, and all the letters went through
her hands. The first I ever heard of the event was when one of your
mother's cousins wrote of her death. Your grandfather had been dead
about six months then; and one day, to my utter amazement, Priscilla
said to me,—

"'Druey, I am going to bring home that girl of Richard Stanfield's. A
child like that won't cost much to keep, and when she grows up, she can
be useful in the house. I want you to go and bring her here.'

"'Why, where are her parents?' was my natural question.

"And then, for the first time, I learned that Richard Stanfield and his
wife were both dead.

"You know the rest of it. Do you remember anything that happened before
you came?"

"Sometimes I do and sometimes not," answered Calista. "I have a kind of
shadowy recollection of my mother, as a pale lady, in black, who used
to dress dolls for me, and who taught me to say 'Gentle Jesus' and 'Now
I lay me down to sleep.' I remember a sickly, lame little boy I used
to play with sometimes, and an old lady I used to call Aunt Malvina. I
recollect her perfectly. She was feeble, and I don't believe she was
rich; but I was very happy with her. I thought of her to-day, when I
saw those trunks. Oh, Miss Druett, I do think it is too bad that I
cannot have my mother's things."

"It is a very hard case, I admit," said Miss Druett. "You had better
consult Mr. Settson about the matter."

"But, Miss Druett, I can never stay here without you," said Calista.
"You are the only friend I have ever had."

"And I have not always been very good to you—have I?"

"Yes, I think you have—only you do say dreadfully sharp, hard things
sometimes. But you are not like Aunt Priscilla; and I am sure I can
never live alone with her. I should be afraid. Do you think she can be
a little insane?"

"No; no more insane than any person is who gives herself up to the
dominion of one idea and the pursuit of one object," said Miss Druett.
"She is sharp enough about business matters."

"She said, to-night, she had never been into grandfather's room since
his funeral," said Calista. "Do you think it can be true?"

"I presume it is. She has an extreme dread of death, and everything
connected with it. Did you go in? I thought I heard you."

Calista related what had taken place, and added that her aunt had given
her permission to finish her term at school.

"I dare say she will take it back," she added. "She will want me to
stay at home and cut carpet-rags."

"You had better say nothing on the subject, but take the permission for
granted, and go as usual," said Miss Druett. "I want you to do several
little things for me in town. But now, to finish my story: It seems
that my father, Colonel Druett, had his conscience awakened in his
latter days, and by his will left a few hundred pounds to his child and
a small annuity to his wife. His brother, who was his heir, never took
any steps to execute this part of the will; but his nephew was more
honest or less indolent. He took pains to inquire me out, a few years
ago, and actually sent me not only the five hundred pounds which was
my due, but two hundred more on account of the annuity which my mother
should have received. So that I have a reasonable provision for my old
age."

"I wonder you should have staid on here under the circumstances," said
Calista. "Why did you?"

"Why, for several reasons. I am attached to Priscilla, with all her
faults, and know that I am necessary to her; and I remember old
kindness at the hands of her parents; and besides all this," said Miss
Druett, with that sudden, lightning-like smile which so transformed
her face, "there was a certain wayward girl who had somehow contrived
to win her way into my heart in spite of me, and I staid to look after
her. And now I come to what I want to say particularly. I have, as I
told you, a small house in the outskirts of Philadelphia. If I can get
it into my own hands without too much sacrifice, I shall do so. Then,
will you come and live with me, Calista? No, don't answer now," as
Calista sprang up and threw her arms around her neck. "Take time to
think about it. It may involve a good deal. You know Priscilla has all
this property absolutely in her hands, and can leave it to whom she
pleases. The property has greatly increased in value with the advance
of rents, and she must leave a large fortune, supposing she does not
lose everything in some wild speculation, which is not at all unlikely."

"Do you think so?" asked Calista, surprised.

"She has already spent hundreds of dollars on lottery tickets," said
Miss Druett, "and would have spent more but for my influence. She
wasted nearly as much with those miserable treasure-seekers, and is
likely to do it again. I fear leaving her here alone. It is time for
you to go to bed now. I will give you some money to lay out for me in
the morning; and I should like to have you tell Mr. Settson of my plan,
and ask him what he thinks about it. There, good-night, child, and God
bless you. I have not made you as happy as I might, but at least you
know the worst of me."


The next morning Calista prepared for school as usual, and then went to
Miss Druett, who gave her a list of commissions and directions.

"They will take you some time, but I dare say you won't mind. Only, if
you walk home, don't come by the river road. It is too lonely for you;
and I don't fancy having you encounter Zeke or his wife. Here, you may
buy yourself something with that," handing her a silver dollar—the very
first Calista had ever owned.

"How nice!" exclaimed Calista. "Now I can have something of my own to
give away."

Miss Druett smiled and sighed.

"Richard Stanfield, all over," said she.

"You don't mind, do you, Miss Druett?"

"No, no, child; use it in the way that will give you most pleasure.
There, go; I hear Priscilla calling you. If she asks what we were
talking about, you can tell her."

"Where are you going, child?" was Miss Priscilla's first question.

"To school, aunt. You said, last night, I was to finish the term."

"Humph! Mind, I didn't say anything about another. What did Druey want
of you?"

"She wants me to buy her some handkerchiefs and a travelling bag and an
umbrella, and to tell the man about her trunk. David took it in when he
went to market."

"And did she give you the money?"

"Yes, aunt."

Miss Priscilla groaned. "Well, there, go along, child; and tell Chloe
to bring me my breakfast. Does she mean to make me wait all day? But
nobody cares what becomes of me. I suppose I shall starve when Druey is
gone."

"Perhaps she will stay, aunt, if you ask her," said Calista, secretly
hoping she would not; for the prospect of going to live with Miss
Druett, in the little house with the garden and orchard, had already
taken very strong hold on her imagination.

"Mind your own business," snarled Miss Priscilla. "There, never mind,
child. Go along and send Chloe with my breakfast. And perhaps when you
come home, you will look in that room again. You might find something
else. Some people are lucky in finding things."

"Very well, aunt. I have no objection, if you wish it," said Calista,
thinking again of the possibility of finding her grandfather's will.
"Only, I am afraid you will accuse me of stealing again, as you did
about the working-case."

"No, no, I won't. Here, you may have the working-case, if you like;
only, don't lose it. It was your grandmother's, and perhaps she might
be pleased—there, do go and send up my breakfast."

"Two presents from my aunt in two days—what is going to happen?" said
Calista to herself. "Oh, how much I have had to think about! It seems a
year since I went to school yesterday morning. How odd that she should
speak in that way of my grandmother's being pleased, when she does not
believe in any existence after death!"



CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

THE NEEDLE-CASE.

WHEN Calista arrived at school, she found Mary waiting for her at the
gate. The occurrences of the afternoon had almost put those of the
morning out of her head; but the sight of Mary renewed the sore feeling
in her heart. How could she meet Mary and treat her as if nothing had
happened, after her treachery of the day before? Fortunately, she had
no time left her to debate the matter. Mary came forward to meet her,
with both hands outstretched and her face dyed with blushes.

"Oh, Calista, won't you forgive me? I am so sorry—so ashamed. Do,
please, forgive me."

It was not in Calista to resist such an appeal. Silently the two
friends embraced and kissed each other.

"I went to Miss Meeks and told her just how it was," said Mary, as,
with interlacing arms, after their old fashion, they walked toward the
school-room. "And then I wanted to find you, but you were gone."

"Yes; aunt sent for me to go home."

"So Miss Meeks said. Calista, you were right: it was love of the
world and its praise that made me act as I did. I saw that when I
came to look myself in the face. I think there never was any one so
inconsistent as I am," concluded Mary, with a sigh. "And how I have
lectured other people!

"Well, you are the least bit given to preaching—that cannot be denied,"
said Calista, smiling.

Mary was a little piqued, notwithstanding her late resolutions.
"Anyhow, I shall never do it again," said she.

"Oh, yes, you will—dozens of times," returned Calista. "If you were to
see the state my desk is in, you would give me a lecture on the spot.
Come and help me to put it in order before Miss Meeks catches me."

Somehow or other, Mary did not feel quite satisfied. She would have
liked to have her penitence made of a little more consequence. So hard
is it to put down in our hearts the love of the praise of men. She
was, however, conscious of the feeling, and, instead of allowing it a
lodgment, she resolutely turned it out and shut the door.

"Oh, Calista! How can you ever find anything in such a chaos?" she
exclaimed, as the lid of the desk was lifted.

Then, as Calista laughed, she put down a rising feeling of anger and
laughed too.

"Well, there! You see it is second nature," said she. "But seriously,
Calista, if you really wish to be a teacher, you must learn to be more
orderly."

"I know it; and really, Mary, I am improving. The fact is, I had all
the things out of my part of the desk yesterday, preparatory to a grand
'redding up,' as Miss Jessy says; but then came the summons to go home,
and I tumbled them back anyhow. Come, let us put it to rights before
school."

"Was anything wrong yesterday?" asked Mary, as she collected a dozen
quill pens, and set herself to mend them.

The making and mending of pens was a serious business in those days,
and took up an amount of time which no teacher at this day can realize.

"Everything was the matter," answered Calista. "I never saw my aunt in
such a tantrum. She declared at first that I should not come to school
again, but should stay at home and cut carpet-rags. And she actually
ordered Miss Druett out of the house."

"I wonder what she thinks she would do without her."

"I don't know, I am sure. She all but cried last night, because she had
nobody to play cribbage with her. I tried to learn, to pacify her, but
could make nothing of it. However, she was pleased with my trying, and
said I was good-natured—the very first time I ever had a word of praise
from her—and more than that, she gave me a sixpence."

"Not a whole one?"

"No, it has a hole in it, and I am not sure it is good; but I mean
to try at Mammy Bates's, after school. And more than that, she gave
me a working-case—the very one that brought down Alexandre on poor
Antoinette's devoted head yesterday. See what a pretty, old-fashioned
thing it is."

"Very pretty," said Mary, examining the little case. "If I were you,
I would have Mr. Parvin sharpen up the knife and scissors. They are
very good yet. I wonder what rattles so in the bottom. Does this little
velvet tray come out?"

"I don't know; I have not tried. Yes, see, it does lift up, and—well
I wonder what will happen next!" said she, as she turned up the case
and shook out two English half-crowns. "That is the third sum of money
I have found in twenty-four hours. I must be a lucky person, as aunt
says. I wonder whether I had not better try my fortune on the pirates'
treasure."

"Why, what were the others?"

"Oh, the sixpence, in the first place. That was in the pocket of one
of the old coats I was to cut into carpet-rags. Then I was looking in
an old drawer, and I found some gold pieces of grandfather's that Aunt
Priscilla did not know of. That was a lucky find for me, for it put her
in a good humor and gained me permission to finish my term at school.
But there, Aunt Priscilla told me not to speak of it," said Calista,
vexed at herself. "How careless of me! Please, Mary, don't say anything
about it, will you?"

"Of course not," said Mary. "But do you really think Miss Druett will
go away? How will you get on without her?"

"I shall not try," said Calista. "She has a plan for herself and me
which she told me to talk over with your father."

"I am afraid you will not have the chance to-day," said Mary. "Father
has gone up to Princeton, and will not be back till after commencement.
Cannot you tell me? Would it be wrong?"

"No, I don't think so. She did not tell me not to tell," said Calista,
considering. "Of course, I would not want the affair talked over, at
least, not till it is all settled; but so long as I was to tell your
father, I don't see any harm in telling you."

Calista then detailed her friend's plan; busying herself, meantime, in
polishing the handles of the different implements in the equipage with
a bit of chamois leather which she kept to wipe pens on.

Mary listened with great attention to the end. Then she said, gravely:

"Have you thought, Calista, how much this plan involves? If you leave
your aunt in that way, will she not be very much displeased?"

"There is no telling whether she will be or not. One thing is certain,
I cannot and will not live alone with Aunt Priscilla. I don't think
your father would advise it. As to the estate, if that is what you are
thinking of, I try to give up all thought of it."

"That is the best way, I suppose. And yet, do you think you shall like
living with Miss Druett? Is she not very odd-tempered?"

"She is odd-tempered, but not ill-tempered, if you understand the
difference," answered Calista. "She sometimes says very sharp and
sarcastic things; but she does not delight to hurt and mortify one,
like Aunt Priscilla; and she is very just. You always know where
to find her. And she has not one way of Aunt Priscilla's which is
particularly exasperating—that of taking up some perfectly harmless
word or observation, and twisting and turning it into a great offence.
Then, I know all her ways and she knows mine. We are used to each
other, and, as old Mrs. Graves said the other day, when her husband
died,—

"'We have lived together so long that we have got kind of wonted to
each other.'"

"Would not you rather come to us, Calista, if it could be arranged so?"
said Mary. "You know my father spoke of it the other day."

"Of course I should, for most reasons," answered Calista. "But then,
you see, Mary, I owe a great deal to Miss Druett. She was my only
friend for a great many years. I should never have had any education
but for her; and now that I look back at it, I can see how she stood
between me and Aunt Priscilla's stinginess and tyranny. I verily
believe I should never have been anything but a down-trodden drudge of
a servant girl but for her. She is very fond of me, in her way, too,
and she has no one else. So, if she wants me to go with her, I think I
ought to do it."

"But don't you owe any duty to your aunt, Calista?"

"No, Mary, I do not," said Calista, flushing. "I believe, at this
moment, my aunt is keeping me out of my inheritance, and enjoying—no,
not enjoying, but holding—what is my rightful property. She owes me a
great deal more than the bare support she has given me. But there, I
don't want to talk or think about that; it does me no good. See how
beautifully these handles polish. I believe they are gold, and not
gilded, after all."

"I should think so, but I am no judge. I dare say Mr. Parvin can tell
you. See, I have rubbed up the velvet and morocco so that it is almost
as good as new. You ought to take great care of this case, Calista."

"Yes, indeed; I mean to. I believe I won't take it out to the
play-ground, but leave it here in my desk, behind these books. My
pocket is worn so thin, it is not very secure. Come, let us go and see
what the girls are all about. Oh, by the way, will you go out with me
at noon recess? I have some errands for Miss Druett, and I ought to
have done one as I came along, but the shop was shut. It was about her
trunk that was sent in this morning. The rest can wait till afternoon."

"Oh, Calista," said Mary Burns, meeting her at the school-room door,
"may I go to your desk and take out Miss McPherson's 'Deserted
Village?' She said you had it, and I want to learn a piece out of it."

"Of course," answered Calista. "Why didn't you take it at once?"

"I didn't want to open your desk without asking you," answered Mary
Burns.

"What a terrible thing if you had done so!" said Calista, merrily.
"Who knows what dark and dreadful mysteries you might have discovered?
However, I will say, Mary, I wish all the girls in school were as
particular about such things as you are. It would save lots of trouble."

"Allow me to remind you, Miss Stanfield, that 'lots of trouble' is not
a very genteel expression," said Miss Meeks, who was standing near.

"I know it, Miss Meeks, and I stand corrected," answered Calista. "You
must allow that the sentiment was correct, though the expression was
awkward, as you say."

Miss Meeks glanced sharply at the speaker, as if suspecting ridicule,
which she always was suspecting, poor lady. But Calista's smile and
glance disarmed her, and she said pleasantly:

"I quite agree with you there. I hope your desk is in order, Calista.
You know I must mark you if it is not."

"Indeed it is, Miss Meeks; I have just put it all to rights."

"Then perhaps I had better look at it before you go back to it," said
Miss Meeks, smiling, as she turned away.

"Just think! Miss Meeks made a joke," said Calista. "What is going to
happen? It is as great a wonder as Aunt Priscilla's making a present.
What is the matter, Mary?"

"Nothing," answered Mary Settson, resolutely bruising the head of a
little serpent of envy and annoyance which had popped up and hissed in
her heart at hearing another praised. "How does your work get on?"

"Nicely. I should have finished the middle last night but for taking a
lesson in cribbage from Aunt Priscilla. I think I will knit the border
in rosebuds."

"Do you think they wash well? You know you want to do up a bureau cover
pretty often."

"Oh, yes; just as well as any other."

Two or three other girls now came up, and the conversation diverged
to patterns, stitches, and other similar mysteries. Then Mary Burns
brought "The Deserted Village," * and asked Calista's opinion as to
what part she should learn.

   * If, as I much fear, some of my readers have not read this exquisite
poem of Goldsmith's, I advise them to do so without delay.

"Take the character of the pastor," said Mary Settson.

"Begin at the beginning and go straight through," suggested Calista.
"It is all worth remembering. I am doing that by the 'Lady of the
Lake.' It is very nice to know plenty of pretty verses, especially if
one has not many books."


Meantime, some one else had been at Calista's desk. Antoinette Diaments
had not expected to go down to Graywich till Saturday morning, but
her uncle from Philadelphia had called for her, and Miss McPherson
had excused her in consequence. She had seen Calista with the coveted
working-case in her hand, and had seen where she put it in her desk.
Finding herself alone in the school-room, the temptation to examine
the little equipage was too strong to resist. Just as she was about
opening the desk, Mary Burns entered, and Antoinette stepped behind an
open closet door watched Mary Burns as she examined two or three books,
stopped to read a page or two in the "Lady of the Lake," and then,
closing the desk, walked away with the book she had come in search of.
Then she herself went to the desk and took out the working-case. It was
prettier than ever.

"What hurt will it do for me just to take it down to Graywich with me?
Nobody will know who took it, and I can slip it into the desk when I
come back. It would be serving her right if I kept it altogether."

Antoinette dropped the case into her pocket and went away, first
tumbling over Calista's papers and throwing the whole orderly desk into
confusion. It was with a malicious smile that she saw Miss Meeks come
into the room, open the desk, and frown as she observed the contents.

"I will teach you to interfere and get me into a scrape, Miss
Stanfield," said she. "I should like to be by when your aunt asks you
what you have done with her working-case."


"Miss Stanfield, what did you mean by telling me that your desk was all
in order?" asked Miss Meeks, coming to Calista as soon as the school
was opened.

Calista looked surprised, as well she might.

"See here," continued Miss Meeks, opening the desk. "Do you presume to
call that order?"

"Why, who in the world has been at my desk!" exclaimed Calista, too
much surprised to answer the question, or to modulate her voice to
the proper pitch required by the school-room etiquette, which Miss
McPherson and her assistants strictly enforced.

"Miss Stanfield, are you aware how loudly you are speaking? You forget
yourself."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "But I was so surprised,
I forgot myself, as you say. I assure you, I left it in perfect order,
as Mary can bear witness."

"Indeed she did, Miss Meeks," said Mary, who had asked and obtained
permission to occupy Antoinette's vacant place.

"Don't you believe me, Miss Meeks?" asked Calista.

"Certainly I do, Calista," answered Miss Meeks, in a more friendly
tone. "But it is very singular. Who could have meddled with your
things?"

"Mary Burns looked into the desk for a book she wanted," said Calista.
"Mary is apt to keep her own things rather at loose ends, but I hardly
think she would turn mine upside down in this way, especially as
the book she wanted lay directly in front, on the shelf. Don't you
remember, Mary? You put it there yourself."

"She might have accidentally displaced the books, if she were in a
hurry," said Mary.

Now, it was an undeniable fact that Mary Burns, with all her good
qualities—and they were many—was decidedly careless and untidy in her
habits; and being so, she was a continual cross and annoyance to Miss
Meeks. Consequently, she was no favorite with that lady, and it was
with some sharpness that she called:

"Miss Burns!"

Mary rose from her seat and came to Calista's desk.

"Yes, Miss Meeks."

"What did you do to Miss Stanfield's desk this morning?"

"Nothing," said Mary, coloring scarlet as she met Miss Meek's severe
glance, and the surprised looks of the other girls.

"What do you mean by saying, 'nothing'? Did you not open the desk and
take something out of it?"

Mary was a shy girl and easily disconcerted; and she stammered from
sheer nervousness as she answered—

"Yes, ma'am; I took out a book that Calista—that Miss McPherson—" and
here she stopped from absolute inability to articulate another word.

"You mean that you took out the book of Miss McPherson's which she told
you to ask me for," said Calista's clear, reassuring voice. "Did you
notice then whether the desk was in order or not?"

"It was, I know," answered Mary, recovering herself a little.

"Allow me to manage this matter in my own way, and do not take
the words out of my mouth, Miss Stanfield," said Miss Meeks,
sharply—jealous for her own dignity, as usual. "Did you or did you not
meddle with the other contents of Miss Stanfield's desk, Miss Burns?"

"I didn't meddle with anything; only, I took a book and read a little,"
said Mary. "The book I wanted was Miss McPherson's 'Goldsmith.' Calista
had it, and I asked her if I might go to her desk and get it; you heard
me."

"I am aware of that. What then?"

"Then I did go and get it. It lay on the shelf. I did not touch
anything else, only the 'Lady of the Lake.' I took that up and read in
it a little and put it back. The desk was all in order then, I am sure."

"Well, it is very odd, that is all I can say; and a great shame," said
Calista, "to go and cheat me out of a credit-mark for order, when I get
so few. I don't mean you, Mary."

"Allow me to ask whom you do suspect, Miss Stanfield? You say that you
put the desk in order; Miss Settson says same. It is found in great
disorder, and nobody is known to have been near it but Miss Burns."

"I don't know anything about it, Miss Meeks. But I don't believe Mary
did it. If she had, she would say so—she would not tell a lie about it."

Now, it had unfortunately happened that Mary's extreme timidity had,
once on a time, betrayed her into evasion, if not absolute falsehood;
and this Miss Meeks remembered, as, unluckily, she always did remember
anything which told against the character of a person she disliked.

"I wish I were as sure of that as you are, Miss Stanfield. Please look
over your desk and tell me whether you miss anything."

Calista looked through her possessions, and turned, first red, then
pale, as she pointed out a particular compartment in the desk to Mary.

"Well, what is it?" said Miss Meeks, sharply. "I see that something is
wrong. What do you miss?"

"A little old-fashioned working-case my aunt gave me. It is the same
one that Antoinette wanted to borrow yesterday. Miss Priscilla gave it
to me this morning, and I brought it into town to have the knife and
scissors sharpened; and because my pocket was not very strong, I put it
away in my desk while I went out to the play-ground. I am quite sure
Mary did not touch it."

"Did you see any one in the school-room when you were here?" asked Miss
Meeks.

"No, ma'am—yes, ma'am," stammered Mary. "That is, I saw Antoinette
Diaments come out of the room a few minutes after I did."

Miss Meeks's face grew rigid with displeasure.

"Your attempt to throw suspicion on a schoolmate will hardly save you,
Miss Burns. Miss Diaments left for Graywich at eight this morning."

"I can't help that—I know I saw her," said Mary Burns, obstinately;
her own "Scotch" getting up. "I could not be mistaken. She had on her
bonnet and her gray riding-dress."

"At what hour did you come to school?" asked Miss Meeks, turning to
Calista.

"I don't know exactly, Miss Meeks. It wanted a quarter to nine when I
finished putting my desk in order. I looked at the clock to see how
much time I had before school."

"You can go to your seat, Miss Burns," said Miss Meeks, severely. "And
you will please remain there till the close of school. Miss McPherson
is unfortunately laid up with one of her severe headaches; but I shall
lay the matter before her as soon as she is able to attend to it, and
perhaps some light may be thrown upon other events which have occurred
lately."

"Miss Meeks," said Calista, warmly, "you may suspect Mary, if you
please; but I shall never think that she either disarranged my desk or
took anything that did not belong to her—never!"

"Miss Stanfield, you forget yourself. Go to your seat, as I tell you,
Miss Burns. This matter shall be sifted to the bottom."

Mary obeyed with burning cheeks and a beating heart, and Miss Meeks
went on with the business of the school. At recess all the girls
gathered round Mary Settson and Calista.

"Have you really lost your needle-case, Calista? Do you believe Mary
Burns got it?"

"No, I don't," answered Calista, shortly.

"But it could not go without hands, and who else could have touched
it?" argued one of the girls.

"I don't know who did, but I know who didn't," answered Calista. "I
wish the old needle-case had been in the bottom of the creek before I
ever found it," she said to Mary, when they were alone. "It has made
nothing but trouble so far. I no more believe Mary took it than I
believe Miss Meeks did herself."

"But, you must admit, it had an odd look, Calista," said Mary. "I mean
her stammering so, and her trying to throw the blame upon Antoinette,
who must have been ten miles away."

"As to her stammering, she always does that," answered Calista. "As
to her seeing Antoinette, I don't know exactly what to think; but I
believe the truth will come out in time."

"Well, I must say you take the loss of your pretty case very
philosophically—more so than I should," said Mary.

"I am not philosophical at all, I am very much vexed," returned
Calista; "but I don't want to accuse any one falsely, and I don't see
why Mary should say she saw Antoinette when she did not. I am very
sorry Miss McPherson is sick; she would be at the bottom of the matter
in no time. There is the recess bell. Where is Tessy to-day?"

"I don't know. Emma, where is Tessy?"

"Oh, she is quite laid up again with her ankle. She cannot walk at all.
She thinks it is the weather, but I don't," added the little girl,
with an air of wisdom. "I think it was going down to the milliner's
after Antoinette's veil, which she forgot. And do you know, girls, the
milliner would not let Tessy have it without pay, and Tessy was just
silly enough to pay for it herself, after all."

"Well, she is a goose. Why did she do that?"

"Oh, she thought Antoinette would be so disappointed. Miss Jessy is
as vexed as can be, and says Tessy's ankle will never be well unless
she is more careful, and that she ought to go to a hospital, where she
would be made to keep still."

"It would be more to the purpose to send Antoinette, I think," said
Calista.

"It wouldn't make any difference," replied Emma. "If it was not
Antoinette, it would be some one else. Tessy's great trouble is that
she can never say 'no.'"

"I think you are right, little one," said Calista. "If you see Tessy,
tell her I am coming up to see her after school—that is, if Miss Meeks
will let me."

For it was a rule of the establishment that there should be no
room-visiting between day scholars and boarders without express
permission.


In the afternoon, as Miss Meeks had her hands full with the sole care
of the great school-room (Miss Jessy being occupied with the care of
her aunt), she sent Calista again to take charge of the little girls
and their sewing, giving her permission to choose any one she pleased
to help her. Calista chose Mary Settson, of course, and they had a
pleasant afternoon. As she observed Mary's manner with the children,
she could not but own that Miss Meeks was right, sad that Mary was
not cut out for a teacher. Mary had a way with her that was not
encouraging. She set a copy or gave instructions in knitting with a
tone and manner which seemed to say,—

"Well, there it is, but I have not the least idea that you will do it
right. I have no doubt you will blot the writing and pucker the seam,
and drop half the stitches at least."

Calista, on the contrary, was always certain things would be done
well, or, if they did not succeed the first time, that they would
infallibly do so with a little more practice. The children felt the
difference, and so did Mary herself, and it cost her a hard fight with
her besetting enemy. But those who were for her were more than those
who were against her, and she was able to say to Miss Meeks honestly,
and without a quaver in her voice—

"Calista manages beautifully, Miss Meeks. I think she would make an
excellent teacher in our Sunday-school, if we get one up."

"I dare say," replied Miss Meeks. "Well, Miss Stanfield and Miss
Settson, I am much obliged to you."

"Please, Miss Meeks, may I go up and see Tessy?" asked Calista.

"You may go, but do not stay long. I think she is a little disposed to
be feverish."

"Will you go, Mary?"

"I think not. I have a bit of work to finish. I will be ready to go out
with you when you come down."

Calista found Tessy bolstered up on her little bed, with her French
dictionary and a volume of fairy tales which belonged to Miss Jessy,
and was only lent as a special favor. She looked pale and suffering,
but welcomed her visitor cheerfully.

"And what is going on down stairs?" asked Tessy, presently. "I thought
I heard one of the girls say something about Mary Burns being in
trouble. The old story of mislaying her things, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, partly; it all grows out of that," answered Calista,
determined not to be the first to tell of what she believed to be Mary
Burns's undeserved disgrace. "I don't think it would have come to much
if Miss McPherson had been about; but you know people make mountains
out of mole-hills sometimes."

"Yes, and the mountain sometimes brings forth a ridiculous mouse."

"I suspect the mouse in this case will be ridiculous enough," said
Calista. "But, Tessy, what made your ankle so much worse all at once? I
thought it was almost well."

"It was a great deal better," answered Tessy, blushing. "I suppose I
walked too much and too fast."

"That is to say, you half killed yourself, as usual, running to wait on
Antoinette," said Calista.

"Well, yes, I suppose that was it. You see she forgot her veil and I
had to go after it."

"Why did you have to? Why could not she call for it as she went along?"

"I don't know. I suppose she did not think of it."

"Well, I know," said Calista, "or at least I guess. Tell me now,
honestly, did you not pay for it?"

Tessy blushed scarlet, and cast an imploring glance at Calista.

"Please don't tell, Calista; it will only get her into a scrape."

"I shall not tell, because it would get you into a scrape, you little
goose. But I will tell you this, Tessy: if you ever want to be good for
anything in this world—or any other, I might say—you must learn to say
'No,' and say it good and strong; in capital letters, with a string of
exclamation points after it."

"I think I could always say no if it was about anything right or
wrong," said Tessy, thoughtfully.

"Are you sure? Was there nothing wrong about this?"

"Why, no. Was there?"

"Yes, I think so. In the first place, you had no right to injure your
ankle, especially as Dr. Elsmore told you that a little imprudence
might lame you for life. In the second place, you know that Miss
McPherson has forbidden Antoinette to borrow anything whatever, don't
you?"

"Yes."

"And if it is wrong for her to borrow, it is clearly wrong for any one
to lend to her."

"But it wasn't lending, exactly. Antoinette did not ask me to pay for
the veil, though, to be sure, she must have known I could not get it
without paying, because Mrs. McPherson has forbidden any one to trust
the school-girls. Yes, I see, Calista, you are right, and I am a poor,
weak, silly fool, and always shall be."

"Now you are going just as far the other way," said Calista. "I never
said a word about your being a silly fool. All I say is that you must
learn to say 'NO!' and say it good and strong."

"It seems so ill-natured," pleaded poor Tessy.

"Pray, whose good opinion do you care the most for, Antoinette's or
Miss McPherson's? But there, I did not come to give you a dose of
instructive moral sentiments. How does your work get on?"

"Oh, nicely; it is almost done, and Miss Jessy praises it up to the
skies. Don't you want to see it? It is in that drawer, if you don't
mind getting it out."

"How nice your drawers look!" said Calista.

"Yes, I am really learning to keep things straight, thanks to Miss
Jessy. That is it. Spread it out."

Calista admired to Tessy's heart's content the lace-like netted
curtains, with what we should now call a guipure pattern around the
edge.

"They are perfectly lovely. Do you think they will sell?"

"Oh, yes; they are bespoken already by a friend of Miss McPherson's
from Philadelphia—that Scotch lady who was here the first of the week."

"How glad I am! Mine is done, too, all but the border. I mean to knit a
double row of rosebuds. There, I must not stay another minute, or Miss
Meeks will be after me. Oh, by the by, Tessy, what time did Antoinette
go away this morning?"

"Do you mean the first time or the last?"

"Why, did she go away twice?" asked Calista.

"Yes. She set out at eight o'clock, but something happened to the
horse's foot, and uncle had to go to the blacksmith's; so Antoinette
came back and waited till he was ready. She left the room here just as
the quarter to nine bell was ringing, but she did not go away directly,
I know. I heard her go into the school-room; I always know the peculiar
squeak of her boots. Why?"

"Only that one of the girls thought she saw her in the school-room
after the first bell rung, and Miss Meeks said it must be a mistake,
because Antoinette went away at eight," said Calista, rejoicing in the
power Tessy had given her of so far clearing Mary. "Good-bye, dear; I
shall bring you some flowers Monday. I know where I can find some late
laurel, and perhaps a moccasin-flower or two."

"Oh, thank you! I do love laurel, and I have not been able to get out
to gather any this year."

Calista went straight to Miss Meeks's room, but she had gone out. Miss
Jessy was sitting with Miss McPherson, who had just fallen asleep, and
must not be disturbed on any account.

"I don't see but I must let the thing rest till Monday," said Calista
to Mary, after she had told her Tessy's story.

"You might call and see Mary Burns herself," suggested Mary Settson.
"But perhaps it would be as well to leave the whole matter till Monday,
as you say. Mary needs a lesson."

"She may need a lesson, but I don't care to be the one to give it to
her," answered Calista, with some warmth; "and I don't think I should
thank any one for giving such a lesson to me. Would you?"

"Perhaps not," answered Mary; "and yet it might very good to me, for
all that."

"Well, I don't feel any special mission for doing people good by
keeping them in uncomfortable suspense when there is no need for it,"
returned Calista. "I would rather do as I would be done by. Come, let
us stop and see Mary."

They were disappointed again. Mary had gone to her aunt's directly
after school, and would probably stay all night, as her aunt was more
than usually unwell.

"I can't go all the way up to Mrs. Rolfe's, that is certain," said
Calista; "and I don't like to leave a message either. Well, let it go.
Perhaps you will see her or Miss Meeks to-morrow. If you do, please
tell them what Tessy says. Come, I must do Miss Druett's errands."

The errands were accomplished, and then Calista did one for herself.
With a part of her dollar she bought a pound of sperm-candles—an
article much cheaper and better than the parafine-candles which have
taken their place.

"What on earth did you do that for?" asked Mary, as they turned into
the street.

Calista laughed, and then became suddenly grave as she said—"I suppose
you cannot realize what it is never to be allowed a light when you go
to bed, except perhaps a mite of tallow-candle in winter."

"You don't mean to say you never have a light in your own room!"

"Neither light nor fire, except as I told you, in the dead of winter."

"But Miss Druett—"

"Miss Druett helps me all she can; but Aunt Priscilla keeps the keys.
Now and then Chloe makes candles, and then she contrives to save one
out for me. Good-bye, Mary. Do say a kind word to Mary Burns, if you
get a chance. I am just as sure of her innocence as I am of yours or my
own."


Calista had just reached the place where the river road turned off,
when the rattle of wheels made her look round, and she saw Cassius
driving up in his neat, serviceable little Jersey wagon. He stopped as
he saw Calista.

"Evening, Missy," said he, taking off his hat as usual; "I heard you
was on the road, and so I drove fast to catch up with you. Won't Missy
have a ride?"

Calista gladly accepted the offer, and Cassius drove on leisurely,
entertaining his companion with various little bits of news.

"Did Missy hear that we are to have preaching at the old meeting-house
every Sunday evening now?"

"No," said Calista, very much interested. "I think that will be very
nice. Who is to preach?"

"I disremember his name, though I have seen him often when we was both
young," answered Cassius. "He is quite an old gentleman now, and has
come to end his days with his niece over here at the Mills. So when he
heard there was no preaching anywhere rounds here, he said he would see
what he could do, and he got leave to use the old meeting-house. I am
going round to-morrow to tell all the neighbors. Won't you try to come,
Missy? You know what that pretty hymn says—

   "'Tis easier work, if we begin
    To serve the Lord betimes.'"

"I will certainly try to come," said Calista. "It is very good in you
to take so much pains about the matter."

"It ain't much I can do to serve the Lord these times; but I think it a
great privilege to be allowed to do the leastest thing for one who has
done so much for me," said the old man. "And, bless the Lord, he don't
look at how much we do, but how we do it. When that poor woman in the
Scripture put in her two mites into the treasury, the good Lord said
she had put in more than they all."

"You love him, don't you, Cassius?"

"Yes, bless his name, Missy, I do."

"Well, I wish I did."

"So do I, Missy, for I am sure he loves you. Why don't you?"

"Well, I hardly know, Cassius. I suppose I don't think enough about it.
I have not had much chance, you know."

"Ah, Missy, don't say that. You have been to church and heard the
minister preach and read about him, and you've heard the Bible read in
school. I'm afraid it is as you say, and you don't think enough about
it."

"Perhaps so."

"You will think, won't you, Missy?"

"Yes, Cassius, I will," answered Calista, frankly. "And I will go to
the meeting if aunt will let me. Thank you ever so much for bringing me
home. Good-night."

Calista peeped into the sitting-room. She had come to look on the
Philadelphia scheme as quite settled and certain, and she felt a sudden
sinking at her heart as she saw Miss Druett and Aunt Priscilla sitting
together just as usual. Miss Stanfield was the first to speak.

"Whose wagon was that I heard? Have you taken to hiring carriages to
bring you home?"

"Not quite, yet," answered Calista. "Cassius overtook me, and brought
me home in his wagon."

"Well, that is well enough. If you were a little sharper, you might
often get a ride and save your shoes. But catch you saving anything!"

"Let the child alone, Priscilla," said Miss Druett. "Calista, did you
get the things as I told you?"

"Yes, ma'am, they are all here. Shall I leave them in your room?"

"If you please. I am just going up."

"So you have made it up with Aunt Priscilla," said Calista, as they
were going up stairs together.

Miss Druett nodded.

"She came to my room, begged my pardon for what she had said, and asked
me to stay, and I have said I would for the present."

"And so all our fine plan falls to the ground," said Calista, sadly.

"For the present, as I said; but it may yet come to pass. Meantime,
here is something to console you."

She put a bunch of keys into Calista's hand as she spoke.

Calista looked at them in wonder.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Keys," said Miss Druett, smiling. "Look into your room, and perhaps
you will find something they will fit."

With a beating heart Calista, opened the door. There in a row at the
side stood the three brown leather trunks, marked on the end "Calista
Folsom."



CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE TRUNKS.

"I KNOW it was your doing, Miss Druett. How did you manage it?"

"Why, I thought the present was a good time for some diplomacy, so
I made the restoration of the trunks, and several other things,
conditions of my remaining. You are my girl now, Calista, and must mind
me. I mean to be very harsh and tyrannical, so you must make up your
mind to it. I shall take out all my injuries of every sort on you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I made it one condition of my staying another day,
that you were to be delivered over to my care altogether, Priscilla
furnishing your board as long as you stay here, and I being at all
the other expenses of your maintenance and education. So mind you
don't tear your dresses and spoil your shoes running after flowers and
squirrels, or I don't know what will happen."

"It is too much, Miss Druett; more than you ought to do."

"No, I can afford it well enough; as things are, I have not much use
for money."

"But you might live so much more pleasantly somewhere else."

"More pleasantly, perhaps, but pleasure is not all, my little girl.
Here is my place, and here I must remain for the present. General
Stanfield was my mother's friend and helper in her sorest hour of need,
and I will stay and watch over his daughter as long as I can do her any
good."

"I believe you are the only person who has any influence with her,"
remarked Calista.

"I think so too, and I don't know how long that influence will last;
but while it does, I am bound to use it."

"But about the trunks?" said Calista.

"Well, they are another condition. Of course, I cannot say in what
state you may find their contents, but they have never been touched
since they were piled up in that room."

"I wonder Aunt Priscilla has not ransacked them long ago."

"She never had the chance," replied Miss Druett. "I mislaid the keys,
and did not find them for a long time, and when I did, I thought it
just as well not to mention the fact. But now, Calista, I have one
or two conditions to impose as you, if this bargain of ours is to
stand. The first is, that you shall not go out, visit, or make any new
acquaintances, without consulting me."

"I am sure I agree to that," said Calista; "I am only too thankful to
have some one who really cares what I do."

"The second is, that you shall never speak disrespectfully to, or of,
Priscilla; it is not good for you or her."

"I agree to that, too," said Calista. "I never speak of her at all,
if I can help it; never to any one but Mr. Settson or Mary, who
know all about her. I never fancied making family matters common
property—'setting all your broken dishes out on the fence,' as Chloe
says."

"That is the true ladylike spirit," said Miss Druett. "You must come to
me whenever you want money, clothes, or books, and you must let me be
the judge as to your need of them. When I have time to look over and
calculate my resources, I shall try to make you a regular allowance
of pocket-money, though it will have to be very small. Take care of
your keys; keep the trunks always locked, and the keys in your pocket
or under your pillow. Now get yourself ready for supper, and mind you
don't say anything to exasperate Priscilla."

Calista obeyed. It required some firmness on her part to resist the
temptation at once to open the trunks, which she could hardly believe
to be really within her reach. She made herself as neat as she could,
taking particular pains with her hair, which Miss Druett said was like
her father's. As she entered the sitting-room, Miss Druett sighed, and
even Miss Priscilla seemed struck with her appearance.

"Just like her father," said she, half to herself; "just like him, mind
and body; and would make the money fly just so, if she could get it;
but that won't be in my time. No, no."

Calista thought of her promise just in time to suppress a sharp retort.
She took her place at the table, which was rather better furnished than
ordinary, and helped herself to bread and butter without receiving
the usual rebuke. Indeed, Miss Priscilla seemed rather anxious to
conciliate her niece, and actually asked her two or three civil
questions.

"Well, really, she got through a meal without snapping at me once,"
said Calista to herself; "but I suppose it is too good to last."

"Where is the working-case I gave you this morning?" asked Aunt
Priscilla, as Calista rose to leave the room after supper. "I want to
see it."

"I took it to town to have the knife and scissors put in order so that
I could use them, and I did not bring it home," answered Calista,
telling the truth, but not quite the whole truth.

"Humph! However, it doesn't matter to me; only I should like to know
how you expected to pay for it."

"Why, aunt, you know you gave me a whole sixpence," answered Calista.

"More fool I!" answered Miss Priscilla, gruffly.

"And Miss Druett also gave me a little money—so I was quite rich."

"More fool she!" again ejaculated Miss Priscilla. "However, it is no
concern of mine."

Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap.

And Calista, dismissed by a glance from Miss Druett, stole away to
examine her treasures.


The keys and locks were alike rusty, but a little grease from her
treasured bit of tallow-candle soon removed that trouble; and it was
with a feeling of awful delight that Calista opened the long-shut lids,
and inhaled the odor of the spices, camphor, and tobacco, with which
Mrs. Tom Folsom and Miss Malvina had embalmed their contents so long
ago. It almost seemed to her as if she were about to have an interview
with her mother.

The first trunk she opened contained only linen—real linen, and of
good quality—for, at the time poor Calista Folsom's wedding outfit was
provided, cotton was very little worn, except in the shape of chintz.
Calista found her own baby-clothes, pinned up in a separate bundle, and
shed some tears over the dainty sewing, the beautiful satin stitch,
and lace-like cut work with which they were adorned. The next trunk
contained dresses and other things of that nature, and Calista opened
her eyes wide at the three or four rich silks, the soft gray Canton
crape, and the beautiful, unapproachable India camel's hair cloth—such
as I remember seeing upon old ladies when I was young. Then there were
two er three white dresses, worked in deep patterns, with floss and
amazing lace stitches; a large white Canton crape shawl, and another
which Calista was sure was an Indian cashmere, of a soft, dusky, almost
smoky, red—such as no Western dyer ever attained or ever will—with wide
borders at the ends and narrow ones at the sides.

"I wonder whether I shall ever wear any of these things?" said Calista
to herself, as she carefully restored them to their neat folds and
wrappings. "But, oh, how I wish I could find something which tells more
about herself!—some letters or journals. Perhaps they are in the other
trunks."

So it proved. The contents of the last trunk were more valuable than
any of the others. It contained a gold watch and chain much like that
one which Calista had discovered is her grandfather's desk; a box
containing an expensive set of ornaments and some beautiful lace—poor
Richard's wedding present to his bride; a number of books, among them a
Bible and Psalm-book, bound alike and marked with her mother's name. In
the inside of the Bible was written, in a legible but unsteady hand:

"I leave this Book—which was given me by my own dear mother, on her
death-bed—to my precious and only child, Calista Stanfield. May it be a
lamp to her feet and a light to her path, which shall grow brighter and
brighter unto the perfect day!"

On another leaf, and evidently by the same hand, was inscribed Richard
Crashaw's inscription in a prayer-book:

   "It is an armory of light;
    Let constant use but keep it bright,
          You'll find it yields,
    To holy hands and humble hearts,
          More swords and shields
    Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.
          Only be sure
          The hands be pure
    That hold these weapons; and the eyes,
    Those of turtles, chaste and true,
          Wakeful and wise."

The trunk also contained a work-box and writing-desk each covered with
red morocco, and having the key tied to the handle. Calista was just
going to lift out the writing-desk, when some one knocked and opened
the door. It was Miss Druett.

"Just as I expected," said she. "Do you know what time it is?"

"No, ma'am. Is it late?"

"Only half-past ten—which is rather late for you. Put up your things
and lock the boxes for to-night, or you will have Priscilla in here.
Where did you get your candle?"

"I bought it with some of the money you gave me. Was that wrong? It
does seem so hard not to have a light for anything."

"Not wrong at all. I should have thought of it; but somehow it is only
within a few weeks that I have found out you are not a baby. Here, let
me help you. In what condition did you find the things?"

"They seem to be all right. I don't think the boldest moth would have
ventured into the trunks, they are so filled with tobacco and camphor.
I believe I will keep out mother's Bible and Psalm-book. I know she
would want me to use them."

"Very well. And, Calista, that reminds me of another thing I wanted to
say. Don't read a book in this house—I mean, not a book you find in the
house—without asking me. I don't want your young blood poisoned as mine
was."

"You don't mean that I shall not read mother's books!" said Calista, a
little dismayed.

"Oh, no! I am not afraid of any books your mother was likely to have.
There, good-night! And don't burn the house down."

Calista fastened her door and then sat down to look over her treasures.
The Bible had evidently been long and carefully used, and was marked
from end to end with pencil marks, notes, and references. As Calista
turned over the leaves, it seemed to her as if her mother was talking
with her, so many of the passages seemed marked with special reference
to herself. But the most precious of all was to come. Pinned to the
last leaf of the book was a letter in her mother's handwriting,
addressed—

   "To my dear and precious daughter, Calista Stanfield. To be given her
as soon as she shall be able to read and understand it."

Calista carefully unpinned the letter and looked at it before she broke
the seal, and a feeling of anger rose in her heart at the thought that
so precious a legacy should have been kept from her hands so long. But
this emotion passed away as she read the letter—just such a letter as
a loving, tender, Christian mother might be expected to write to a
daughter under such circumstances. It began with a slight sketch of the
writer's own life, and from it Calista first learned that her maternal
grandfather had been a somewhat noted New England minister.

"I wonder whether I have any relations living," thought Calista. "I
must try to find out some time."

The letter proceeded to give some judicious counsel as to the guidance
of her future life.

   "I cannot but feel that I have been hardly treated by your father's
family," the writer went on to say. "Certainly, I never intended to
injure them in any way. Nevertheless, for your father's sake, should
you be brought in contact with your grandfather or aunt, I beg you will
try to make friends with them."

The writer concluded with a most earnest appeal to Calista at once to
give her whole heart to her heavenly Father, to put herself body and
soul in his hands, and strive to follow the steps of her Saviour into
all holiness and godly living, that she might not fail to meet her
friends at the right hand of God in the great day of account.

Calista shed many tears over this letter, as was only natural.

"Oh, I will—I will!" she said to herself. "I will try to be a
Christian, like my dear mother. I will resolve this minute to serve
God, and to put myself into his hands."

So she did, poor lonely child, and that in all sincerity; but she was
to find out that the gate was straiter and the way narrower than she
had any idea of. The "lion in the way" does not usually lie on the
threshold, but just a little way inside.

Calista went to bed thinking that she should not sleep at all; but
youth and health do not often lie awake long. She was asleep almost
before her head touched the pillow, and did not awake till the robin
which lived in the great tree opposite her window began his usual
musical morning call.

"It can't be more than four o'clock," said she to herself. "You stupid
robin, what did you wake me so early for? Can't you get up yourself
without making such a fuss about it? I suppose I had better go to bed
again."

She lay down, accordingly, and tried to go to sleep for full ten
minutes. Then she decided that there was no use is trying any longer,
and she might as well get up and finish looking over the things. She
was soon dressed and seated on the ground before her treasures. She
opened the work-box first: it contained the usual working implements,
and one thing not often seen in these days—a thread-case, stitched into
long, numbered compartments, into each of which was drawn a skein of
thread or silk, cut at one end.

Calista opened a velvet case with some trouble, and found, as she
expected, a miniature picture of her father. Fastened into the lid of
the case was a sketch, in water colors, of a sweet, fair, somewhat prim
and precise-looking female face, evidently done by no professional
hand. It afforded a great contrast, in its thin tints and stiff
outlines, to the beautifully painted picture on the other side; but
there about it that nameless something which showed it was a likeness.
The clear, well-opened, but somewhat hollow blue eyes, with their
level, even brows, looked at Calista with love; and the firm, but not
stern, mouth seemed as if it might speak. A shadowy remembrance came
over Calista of her mother sitting before a glass and painting, while
she herself sat on the floor and scribbled with a lead pencil. She
kissed the picture again and again.

"She painted it for me—I am sure she painted it for me. My precious
mother!"

But the writing-desk was the most interesting and important of all.
It was of pretty good size, and was packed full of papers arranged
in neat order. There were letters, which had evidently been received
from young friends, full of news and gossip about companions and work
and books, and also with more serious matters—news of a schoolmate's
conversion, requests for prayers, and the like. There were letters
from her father, written after he left her mother to go to the wars;
manly and tender, and thoroughly devout and Christian in their tone.
The last one expressed great regret at the writer's estrangement
from his father.

   "I have written to him, and I hope you will do the same. I am sure if
he were only to see you, all would be right between you."

This letter was endorsed,—

   "The last letter I ever had from my dearest husband. God's will be
done!"

Wrapped up with this letter was a very different one. On the cover was
written, in her mother's hand:

   "I have been, two or three times, on the point of destroying this
letter; but have refrained, thinking it might, at some time, be of use.
I wish to record my firm belief that General Stanfield never saw it or
ordered it written."

Calista opened the letter. It was in Miss Priscilla's clear, cramped
hand, and read as follows:

   "Mrs. Richard Stanfield's letter is received. Mrs. Richard Stanfield
is hereby informed that General Stanfield wishes to hold no communication
with her or her husband on any subject whatever; and that no letters
from either of them will meet with any attention.

                     (Signed) "PRISCILLA STANFIELD,

                                  "For Richard Stanfield."

At the end was written:

   "Nevertheless, I wrote to my husband's father and to his sister at the
time when my child was born, but I never received the slightest answer."

Calista sat with burning cheeks, holding this letter in her hands.
Her lips were compressed, and her eyes full of trouble. She was not
thinking of the loss of property, not at all of herself in connection
with it, but of the cruel injury done to her mother.

"Then she did know. She knew all the time. But Mr. Settson said
grandfather did not know of my existence, and it would certainly seem
so from what Miss Betsy said. She must have contrived some way to keep
the letters from grandfather altogether. Oh, how could she—how could
she be so cruel! And there was my poor mother working herself to death
to support herself and me. I never can forgive her—never. If it had
been myself—but my mother—to write so to my mother! If I cannot be a
Christian without forgiving Aunt Priscilla, I shall never be one. But
there is the bell. I must go down. Oh, how I did want these things, and
now I almost wish I had never seen them."

   "Forever by the goal are set
    Pale disappointment and regret."


As soon as breakfast was over and she could get away, she renewed
her examinations. The trunk contained much that was of interest to
her—books of various sorts, chiefly religious and poetical; scraps
carefully preserved from newspapers; an old-fashioned water-color box,
well furnished with colors, brushes, &c.; a white frock, began but not
finished; and divers other matters of no interest to the reader. When
she had gone through them all once, she locked up the trunks and went
to Miss Druett's room, where she was pretty sure to find her alone at
this time, when Miss Priscilla, always methodical, was engaged in her
daily scolding match with Chloe.

"See here, Miss Druett, what shall I do with these?" said she, showing
her the watch and ornaments she had found.

Miss Druett looked at them with great interest.

"I suppose your father gave your mother these things," said she. "You
must not keep them here. If Priscilla gets wind of them, she will leave
no stone unturned to get them into her hands."

"She will never get them into her hands," said Calista.

"She will try, though. You might give them to Mr. Settson, only he is
not at home. I believe the better way will be to leave them with Mr.
Fabian, at the bank. I could make an errand for you there, and give you
a note to Mr. Fabian. And yet you ought not to walk into town carrying
such a treasure, either. Let me think a little. Here, quick, child, let
me put them in my desk. I hear Priscilla coming."

Miss Priscilla came in, evidently in a great fume.

"Druey, I want you to go to town," was her salutation.

"What now?" asked Miss Druett, with her usual coolness.

"That man Anderson was to have been here day before yesterday, to pay
his interest, and he hasn't come. I want you to go and see about it."

"I can't possibly go to-day. What does it signify? I dare say he will
be here to-morrow. He is always pretty punctual."

"But I want the money."

"Nonsense; you are not suffering for it."

"But I want it," said Miss Priscilla, fretfully; "and you don't know
whether I am suffering or not."

"I know I am," said Miss Druett. "I had earache all night, and if I
should ride to town in this wind, I should have it for a month."

"You can wrap your head up," pleaded Miss Priscilla. "Come, Druey, do;
just to oblige me."

"I would if I could, Priscilla. I want to go myself, but I am not able.
Why not let the child go?"

"The child, indeed! What good can she do?"

"She can carry a note as well as I, and do my errand at the same time.
Let her take the pony. You don't mind, do you, Calista?"

"No, I should like it," said Calista.

Miss Priscilla grumbled and complained, but finally decided that
Calista might do the errand, if she would be careful and not drive the
pony too fast.

"I should like to see myself doing it," said Calista, laughing in spite
of her trouble. "Never fear, aunt; Jeff and I are old friends. I will
run and tell David to get up the chaise."

"He knows about it already," said Miss Priscilla. "I counted on Druey's
going, but she thinks so much of her precious ears."

"They are all I have, you see, and I might not find another pair to fit
me," said Miss Druett. "Never mind, Priscilla, the child will do the
errand just as well. Come to me when you are ready."

Calista dressed herself as neatly as she could, and it was with a
mingled feeling of pain and pleasure that she hung over her arm a long,
soft, gray cloth cloak, which she had found among her mother's things.
Miss Druett noticed it as soon as she entered the room.

"That is a very nice, pretty cloak; was it in the trunk?"

"Yes, ma'am. The air is so damp and chilly that I knew I should need
something, and my old shawl is all in holes. I thought perhaps mother
would like to have me use it."

"No doubt she would like to have you use all the things. Be careful of
them, that is all. And, by the way, stop at Mrs. Dare's and see when
she can fit your frocks."

"Oh, she cannot do them at all," said Calista; "she has broken her arm,
and her niece has all she can do with the girls' examination dresses.
But I heard Cassius say that his step-daughter, Drusella Pine, was
coming here directly to set up dressmaking. I know Miss Alice had her
last summer, and was very much pleased with her. I might find out when
she is expected."

"True, and with the horse you will not be afraid to come round that
way. If I were a little richer, you should have a pretty white frock.
However, we will talk of that another time. Here are your trinkets and
a note to Mr. Fabian. Take care you don't lay the bag out of your hand,
and go straight to the bank the first thing."

"May I go up to the school and ask for Miss McPherson? She had one of
her bad headaches yesterday."

"Yes, but don't stay. I shall feel rather anxious till you are safe at
home."

"Why to-day more than any day?"

"Because I am an old fool, child."

"How foolish I have been!" she said to herself. "I believe I have been
of some use to the child as it was, but what comfort we might have been
to each other if I had not been so determined to nurse my anger and
grief all my life! Even now, at my age, I can hardly help being jealous
of the dead mother's cloak. Truly, the sorrow of the world worketh
death."

Miss Druett did not often quote Scripture, but she had done so once or
twice lately. After Calista had gone, she went into her room to see
that everything was safely secured. Her eyes fell upon Calista Folsom's
Bible, and taking it in her hand, she sat down and read a long time.


"What have you been about all the morning, Druey?" said Miss Priscilla,
as they sat down to their twelve o'clock dinner. They were alone, for
Calista had not yet returned.

"You would never believe it if I were to tell you, Priscilla," was the
answer. "I have been reading the Bible."

"What ails everybody?" was Miss Priscilla's comment. "Here Chloe tells
me that old Mr. Alger is going to preach in the old meeting-house every
Sunday evening. There must be something in the air. We shall have you
turning Methodist and leading a class yet."

"I might do worse," said Miss Druett.

I incline to think Miss Priscilla was right, and that there was
something stirring in the air about the Stanfield neighborhood, a-going
in the tops of the trees, as it were, which might be a sign that a
gracious rain was about to fall on that hitherto dry and barren ground.



CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

CALISTA had truly said that she and Jeff understood each other. To
oblige her, he even condescended to trot. Just as she reached the town,
she met the delinquent Joseph Anderson, and stopped to talk with him.

"Good-morning, Friend Anderson. I was just coming to bring you a note
from my aunt."

"I was on my way to see her," was the reply. "I suppose she is in a
fret about her interest, as usual. I have had it by me these ten days,
but my poor sister Rolfe was so ill, I did not like to be out of the
way."

"I heard yesterday she was not as well."

"She is not long for this world, though she is more comfortable this
morning," said the old man, shaking his head. "Well, it will be a
glorious exchange for her, that is one comfort."

"A great one, I am sure," said Calista.

"Yes, yes, thee is right; but then thee knows the heart will cling to
those it loves. Well, I must go on my errand and get back. Thee had
better give me the note, perhaps."

Calista did so, and drove on to the bank, where she found Mr. Fabian,
an elderly white-haired man, of precise, polite manners, who shook her
by the hand, and complimented her on her growing resemblance to her
father.

Calista presented her note, which Mr. Fabian read with interest.

"Quite right, quite right, and very sensible on your part, my dear
young lady. Yes, I will take care of the things, and have them put into
the vault. I knew your father and grandfather well. Pray, call upon me
without hesitation if I can be of any service to you."

As Calista was waiting a moment for Mr. Fabian to write a receipt and a
note for Miss Druett, she heard an old gentleman, who had been sitting
in the back office, say to him—

"Is not that old Richard Stanfield's granddaughter?"

"Granddaughter and heir, if every one had their rights," answered Mr.
Fabian in the same tone. "But the second will, if indeed he ever made
one, will never be found."

"It may turn up yet."

"Possibly; and then the girl would be a great heir, for the property
has increased tenfold in value. I fear the will will never be found. I
suspect some one took care of that."

At another time this conversation would have set Calista off into one
of the day dreams in which she had so much delighted; but now her head
and heart were full of something else.

She asked at the school for Miss McPherson, and heard that she was
better, and had gone out driving with Miss Meeks and Tessy; for Miss
McPherson kept a handsome, roomy carriage, and drove out with some of
her young ladies almost every day. It was not till she was on her way
home, and had turned into the river road, that Calista remembered Mary
Burns and the missing working-case.

In fact, Calista's mind and head were full of a new and strange
trouble. A fierce contention was going on for that small empire—so
small, so great—a human soul.

The night before she had fully determined to follow her mother's
counsel—to give herself heart and soul to him who had given himself
for her. But since then, she had read Miss Priscilla's letter, and her
mother's remarks upon it, and hence arose her trouble. This it was
which had waked up the lions which disputed her passage, and if the
lions were chained, she saw not the chains. She knew that to follow
the footsteps of her Lord she must forgive not only her own enemy—she
thought that would be almost easy—but her mother's.

"Forgive if ye would be forgiven," rung in her ears, and she felt the
words were true.

"If it had been only myself,—" she said over and over again—"but my
mother, my dear precious mother, who never did harm to any one in all
her days—no, no! I never can! Oh, why did she keep that letter! She
might have known! Oh, what shall I do!—What shall I do!"

In her trouble of mind, she had nearly passed Cassius's modest little
house, but was recalled by a cheerful greeting from the old man, who
was cutting some wood outside the gate.

"Morning, Missy! Don't you mean to stop and give us a call?"

"Yes, of course," answered Calista, recalled from her abstraction, and
pulling up Jeff, nothing loth, at the gate. "I will come in if you will
fasten the pony."

Cassius tied the pony, and brought him an armful of fragrant new hay
from the next field, with which the attention of that ancient sage was
soon wholly engrossed.

Meantime, Calista had alighted, and was receiving a hearty welcome from
Aunt Sally, who conducted her to the house and seated her in the best
chintz-covered rocking-chair, bringing her a fan, and sending a little
girl to the well for cool water.

"Who is that little thing?" asked Calista, as the child disappeared.
"Your grandchild?"

"Lord bless you, honey, no. My grandchillen's no such peaked, puny
little things as that, thanks to Massy. No, that's poor Maria Jackson's
child, that works to Mrs. Dare's, the dressmaker. You see, Mrs. Dare
she can't very well have the child round—she can't, really—and Maria
boarded the little thing out, down to Gouldtown. But the woman that had
her didn't do her justice—made her work far too hard, though Maria paid
her regular. Besides, she didn't give her half enough to eat. One day I
met Maria in the street, and says she,—

"'Just look at this child, will you!'

"And says I, 'For Massy, Maria, what ails her?'

"So she up and told me, and Sister Wilson, that was with her, said it
was all so.

"And says I, 'Maria, you just let me have her a few weeks, and you
won't know her. Don't you never send her back to that woman,' says I.

"'But I don't know as I can afford to pay what it is worth,' says she.

"'Never mind,' says I; 'you pay what you can, or don't pay anything.
Just let me have her a few weeks, and see what I can do with her. And
Cassius says the same.'

"So we brought her home, and she's picked up wonderful in a week."

"But I thought the Gouldtowners were pretty nice people," said Calista,
as she fanned herself and admired the cool, cheerful aspect of the room.

"So they are—so they are; but Missy knows there's a black sheep in
every flock!"

"They's all middling black sheep up to Gouldtown!" said old Cassius,
who had entered in time to hear the last remark.

Calista smiled, and the old woman laughed they heartily.

"So they are, old man—so they are; but that's only the outside. Bless
the Master's name, he don't look at their skins. And old Sister
Williams, she told me herself that the folks was up in arms about the
way this child was treated. But I'm most sorry we took her, for she's
such a smart, clever, lively little piece, I sha'n't never want to part
with her."

All this time Sally had been, on hospitable thoughts intent, covering
a little table with a white cloth, and setting thereon white bread,
golden butter, a great pitcher of milk and cream, and various other
good things. Having finished her preparations, she invited Calista to
draw her chair to the table, excusing herself for having no meat cooked.

"This hot weather we don't do much cooking. We generally eats bread and
milk, or some such thing, at noon, and I cooks something for supper.
But I can make a fire and boil Missy some eggs in a minute."

"No, thank you," said Calista. "I like this beautiful, cool milk better
than anything."

"That's just what Drusella Pine says," replied old Sally, much
delighted. "She says, 'Aunt, we can get meat in the city, but we can't
get such milk as you have here—not for no price,' says she."

"Philadelphy's pretty well off for milk, too, for a city," remarked
Cassius. "Not like New York."

Cassius always spoke of New York with a kind of pitying contempt, as a
place which might come to something some time, but could never hope to
vie, either in beauty or importance, with "Philadelphy."

"I wanted to ask about Drusella," said Calista. "When is she coming?"

"We expect her to-night," answered Cassius. "I'm going to meet her at
the Cohansey stage and bring her out here. She'll stay with us a few
weeks, and then, I expect, she'll have to rent a room in Cohansey. It
is too far out here for her business."

"I asked because I thought she would, perhaps, do some work for me,"
said Calista. "Miss Druett wants me to have a couple of dresses made,
and she told me to call and see if Drusella could take them home and
cut and fit them."

"I'll speak to her about it the first thing Monday morning," said
Cassius. "I don't doubt she'll be glad to do the work. I hope Missy
means to go to the preaching to-morrow night?"

"Oh, yes, I shall go," said Calista. "Thank you very much, Aunt Sally,
for your nice lunch. I only wish I could make you any return for all
your kindness to me."

"Law, Missy, don't you think of such a thing!" said Sally. "Your family
has done more for us than we can ever pay."


"Well, I'm glad the poor child is going to have some new frocks, for
once in her life," she added as Cassius came back to the house. "I only
wonder how she came by them. Have a drink, old man?"

"Maybe Miss Priscilla's turning liberal," observed Cassius, accepting
the offer.

"Maybe the sky's turning pea-green!" returned Sally, scornfully. "Maybe
that milk you're a-drinking is made of melted pearls!"

"Don't taste like it," said Cassius. "Tastes like first-rate cow's
milk."

"Much you know how melted pearls taste! There, now, don't go to work in
the sun right off. Sit down in the big chair and have a nap. Naps in
the middle of the day is good for old folks."


Calista arrived at home just as Friend Anderson and Miss Priscilla
had finished their business, which had not been done without some
wrangling; Miss Priscilla maintaining that the money was twenty-five
cents short.

"Thee is in the wrong," said Jacob Anderson, "but I will pay the money
rather than dispute longer. I will thank thee for a receipt."

"What is the use of a receipt when it is endorsed on the bond?" snapped
Miss Priscilla.

"I'll trouble thee for the receipt all the same," said the old Friend.
"Accidents sometimes happen, and there is so harm in a double security."

"Won't you have a cup of tea, Friend Anderson?" said Miss Druett,
struck with the old man's weary expression. "You look very tired."

"No, thank thee, Friend Druett. I am a poor man, but I don't think I
could swallow grudged victuals. They would stick in my throat. Thank
thee for the offer all the same. Farewell, Priscilla; I hope thee may
some day come to a better mind. Remember, if riches don't leave thee,
thee will have to leave them. When thee comes to lie on a death-bed,
like my poor sister, twenty-five cents won't look quite so big to thee
as it does now."

And Jacob Anderson took his departure, having certainly taken the worth
of his twenty-five cents out of Miss Priscilla.

"So you had your ride for nothing," remarked Miss Druett.

"Not altogether. I did your errand at the bank, and stopped to see
about Drusella Pine. She is coming to-night, and Cassius says he will
send her over Monday morning."

"What on earth do you want with Drusella Pine?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"I want her to cut and fit the child's new frocks, and perhaps make one
of them. She has not a decent thing to wear."

"She is not coming here to make it, I can tell you that," said Miss
Priscilla, in alarm. "I won't have a dressmaker eating more than her
day's wages, and telling and tattling about family matters all over."

"Don't alarm yourself, I have no intention of having her here,"
replied Miss Druett; "she need not come into the house, if you prefer
she should not. Calista and I can go over there. Don't you want some
dinner, child?"

"No, thank you, Miss Druett. I had a good lunch of bread and milk and
gingerbread at Aunt Sally's?"

"Sally makes a great deal of you, it seems to me," said Miss Priscilla.
"I dare say she would not offer me so much as a crust."

"Oh, yes, she would, aunt; try her and see."

"Did you hear any news?" asked Miss Druett.

"Only about Mrs. Rolfe; they say she cannot live but a few days, at the
outside."

"That will be a great relief to her family," said Miss Priscilla; "it
must cost a great deal to have her ill so long."

"I don't believe they feel in that way," observed Calista; "they are
all very fond of 'Aunty Rolfe,' as they call her. Can I do anything for
you, Miss Druett?"

"No, child, unless you can find a brick to heat for my face. I am going
to try to get a little sleep, for I had none last night."

Calista found the brick and heated it, and having done all in her power
to make Miss Druett comfortable, she betook herself to her own room.

How she would have liked to set her mother's work-box and writing-desk
on the table; but she knew it would never do, though she did venture
to arrange her small store of books on two shelves which had long
ago been put up in a corner. These books were, as I have said,
chiefly religious; but there was a thick, fine-printed but handsome
Shakespeare, with her father's name in it, and some volumes of English
poetry—Cowper, Goldsmith, Young's "Night Thoughts," and others of that
stamp. There was a "Saint's Rest," much used and blotted here and there
with tears; a "Pilgrim's Progress," apparently quite new, and the "Life
of Mrs. Fletcher," by H. More.


The next morning, Miss Druett was really ill with a severe cold, and
Calista, was kept busy all day running and waiting on her. As it came
towards night, however, Miss Druett felt better, and insisted on
Calista going to the meeting. Calista had felt a dull, miserable pain
at her heart all day; she could see no way of deliverance, and she did
not hope for much help at the meeting; but she had promised to go, and
she went.

She was surprised to see what a large congregation had been collected
by the exertions of Cassius and the others who had interested
themselves in the matter. Sally and her husband had washed the windows
and floor, dusted the benches and pulpit, and really made the poor
deserted old sanctuary look bright and cheerful. Cassius, who was
acting as sexton, assigned Calista a seat near the desk, where the
minister was already seated.

He was an elderly, somewhat hard-featured man, who looked as some one
said of another minister, as if he had been through the fire and come
out brightened and also a little hardened by the process. He glanced
at Calista with peculiar interest, and Calista wondered whether he was
thinking that she looked like her father. That, however, was not the
case. He was thinking, "That child looks as if she were in some great
trouble. I wonder what it is. God help her."

The service began with a hymn, then a chapter in the Bible—the first of
St. John's gospel—then a prayer, and then came the announcement of the
text, taken from the same chapter:

   "Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world."

The style was so plain that a child could have understood it; plain
with the simplicity of high cultivation and much reading, and also that
of deep feeling. It was evident that the preacher meant every word he
said. Calista drank it in as a man dying in the alkaline desert would
take in a draught of cool, fair water brought from a mountain spring.
Here was the Saviour she needed—he who was called Jesus, because he
came to save his people from their sins; because his blood cleansed
away sin; because he suffered in their stead; because he blotted out
transgression in the past and promised help for the future.

As the preacher went on in his even, mellow voice, so clear, so calm
and tender, setting forth Jesus Christ crucified in the place of
sinners, Calista's head sank down on the bench before her, and her full
heart overflowed at her. The question was no longer with her, "Can I
forgive Aunt Priscilla?" but "What, oh, what can I do for him who has
done so much for me; who has paid the debt I owed; who has so loved me
all these years that I have never thought of him at all?"

Calista's was not the only bowed head in the assembly. There was a
universal silence and hush, and even the careless and wild young men
whose presence in the back part of the room had caused Cassius and
others some anxiety sat hushed and silent.

The sermon was short—too short for Calista, who would have liked
to sit an hour longer. The speaker announced that a prayer meeting
would be held in the same place on Wednesday evening, and that after
the service, he should be glad to converse with any one who wished
for further religious instruction. Then a hymn was sung and the
congregation dismissed.

Two or three of the better class of neighbors came up to speak to the
minister.

And one grave, formal old man, after saying good-evening, turned to
Cassius and reproved him, with some asperity, for letting in Tom Edgar
and his companions.

"Why, Mr. Heminway, I thought they were just the people who needed the
gospel," answered Cassius, no ways abashed. "I suppose Tom Edgar has a
soul to be saved, and that the Lord died to save it, and he ain't any
worse than the publicans and sinners that same Lord preached to and sat
down to table with."

"That was very different," said the old man. "Tom Edgar is a swearing,
fighting, drunken sot,—the pest of the whole neighborhood."

"So much the more need of his having the gospel preached to him,"
returned Cassius. "Ain't that so, Mr. Alger?"

"Certainly," answered the minister, promptly. "Was that tall, dark
young man by the door Tom Edgar? I looked at him several times, and
thought him quiet and attentive enough. He sings very finely."

"Well, Mr. Alger, all I have to say is, that if you encourage such
sort of people, you will have enough of it. That is the worst of these
outside and out of the way meetings. They draw in all the riffraff of
the community. * If only the respectable people will come, it would be
very well."

   * This is no exaggeration.

"Inasmuch as there is joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner
that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons who need
no repentance, perhaps that may be an effect of outside meetings not
altogether displeasing to him who has promised to be in the midst of
us," said Mr. Alger, mildly.

Mr. Heminway deigned no answer, but walked away.

"Well, for my part, I was downright glad to see the poor young fellow
come in," said Mr. Davis, a small, plain man, who rented one of Miss
Priscilla's farms. "Tom Edgar was just one of the nicest little boys
that ever lived to begin with, but he hadn't much chance. His father
never spoke a kind word to him, and whipped him half to death for every
little fault, and his stepmother, who was young and a kind-hearted
little thing, thought to make it up by indulging him in everything, and
covering up his faults just as far as she could. Tom ain't altogether
bad. Don't you remember how he risked his life nursing that poor
creature that had the fever up in the woods here?"

"I must try to have a talk with him," said the minister. "Who was that
very pretty girl who sat near the desk and seemed so much affected?"

"Oh, that was old Miss Stanfield's niece," said Mr. Heminway, who had
rejoined the group.

"That was Miss Calista Stanfield, daughter of Mr. Richard, and
granddaughter of old General Stanfield of the mansion house," said
Cassius, with a glance of severe rebuke at the first speaker. "She is
as fine a young lady as any in the country."

"That she is," rejoined Mr. Davis. "I wish her aunt was only half as
much of a lady. I wonder why Miss Druett wasn't down. I kind of thought
she would be."

"Oh, she's sick abed with a cold. As to Miss Priscilla, I should
think the millennium was coming sure enough if I should see her in a
religious meeting. Well, Mr. Alger, I'm sure we have had a profitable
time to-night, and I hope it may be the beginning of better things."


Calista went home as it were on wings. She hardly felt the ground on
which she trod. The whole world seemed changed to her. Here was the
Friend, the Protector, the Helper, the Physician, she needed, all in
one. She had been walking in darkness, and here was light; hungry and
thirsty, and here was the bread and the water of life; shut in with
bolts and bars, and here was the deliverer who had broken the gates
of brass and burst the bars of iron asunder, and the guide who would
lead and teach her in the way she should go. She had been fighting with
what she knew to be sin, and here was one who came before her saying,
gently,—

   "'Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.'

   "'I, even I, am he that comforteth you.'"

Calista had, of course, much to learn of the force of temptation, of
inbred sin, and of the corruption of her own heart, but of these things
she did not think, nor would there have been any wisdom, but quite the
contrary, in telling her of them. The traveller who sets out on a long
journey knows very well that he will meet many discomforts, trials, and
dangers; but he would be a foolish man who should lose the freshness of
the morning, and the singing of the birds, and the beauty of flowers
and scenery, in pondering over these coming dangers and trials.

Calista went up to Miss Druett's room, and softly opened the door.

"Come in, child, I am not asleep," said Miss Druett. "Come and tell me
how you liked the meeting."

"Oh, so much, Miss Druett. How I wish you had been there."

"Then you had a fine sermon?"

"I don't know whether it was fine or not," answered Calista. "I never
thought. I knew it was just what I wanted."

Miss Druett drew Calista nearer to her, and fixed her piercing eyes on
her face. Then she sighed deeply.

"I see," said she. "You have found him of whom Moses and the Prophets
did write."

"You are not sorry, are you, Miss Druett?"

"No, child! Heaven forbid! I found him once, or so I thought; but I
lost him again."

"Oh, Miss Druett! Surely he did not forsake you!"

"No: I forsook him. I quarrelled with him because he would not give me
the sweets I cried for, and I have never seen him since. I shall never
find him again, I fear."

"Perhaps he will find you," said Calista softly. "You know that was
what he came for—to seek and to save that which was lost."

Miss Druett had always rather suffered than returned Calista's
caresses, but now she drew the girl down to her, and held her in a
long, close embrace.

"Get your Bible and read the same chapter the minister read."

Calista obeyed, and Miss Druett listened with evident pleasure and
interest.

"To think that any man with a heart could turn that into ridicule,
whether he believed it or not!" said she when the chapter was finished.
"Now tell me what hymns they sang. Do you know any of them?"

"Yes, ma'am. I know the whole of—"

   "'Alas! and did my Saviour bleed,—'

"because we sing it sometimes in church."

"Sing it."

Calista sang the tender, simple old hymn, worth more than whole piles
of sentimental stuff which go under the name of hymns in some quarters
in these days. Miss Druett listened, and more than one tear stole out
from under her closed eyelids.

Miss Priscilla listened as she nodded over her volume of Rousseau, in
the parlors below, and made up her mind that she was not going to have
that sort of thing going on in the house to please Druey nor any one
else.

"Thank you, child. Your voice is like your father's and your
grandmother's. There, get me some fresh water, and leave me alone. I
dare say I shall have a good night."



CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLD JAEL.

CALISTA rose early as usual, with the feeling that she was entering on
a new life. She had lived heretofore for herself—now she must begin to
live for him who had live and died, and lived again, for her. She read
over again her mother's letter, and saw hosts of new meanings in it.
Especially was she struck with these words:

   "You must expect to meet with many trials within and without. It may be
that you will no sooner resolve to be wholly a Christian than you will
find yourself assaulted with more ad sorer temptations than you have
ever experienced. This will be partly because you will see things to be
wrong which you never thought to be so before—partly, but not wholly.
Satan makes his fiercest assaults upon those who are just escaping from
his grasp. Be instant in prayer, study your Bible daily, and I would
advise you also to study the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' You will find it a
treasury of help and instruction."

Some persons might have been discouraged by such a warning—Calista was
not so.

"Sure I must fight if I would win," she said to herself. "I always did
like that hymn."

And she began to sing it, and then instantly checked herself as she
considered that might wake her neighbors.

"I believe I will go out and get the flowers I promised Tessy," said
she. "When I am out in the woods, I can sing as much as I please."

She put on her oldest frock and shoes—not that there was so very much
to choose between oldest and newest—and, crossing the burying-place,
was soon in the shady place where she knew the laurel lingered longest.
It was a little hollow on the edge of the woods, and was kept green
and damp by three or four springs which united their waters to form
a rill—a somewhat uncommon sight in those parts. The place was no
favorite with the country people. On one side of the dell was a curious
grave-shaped mound, from beneath which rose one of the little springs
I have mentioned, which was reddened by oxide of iron. It was believed
that a murdered man and his murderer had there been buried in one
grave, and that the water, in its color, still bore witness to the
deed—and that a kind of venomous snake was found there which lived
nowhere else.

Calista had no superstitious fears, and she had never seen any of
the snakes, so she was not at all alarmed, but went on gathering her
flowers, and then, catching sight of a great prize—a fine cluster of
yellow moccasin-flowers—she descended to the centre of the hollow,
and, stepping lightly and carefully—for the centre of the hollow was
dangerously soft and boggy—she secured her prize. As she did so, she
was startled by an odd, hollow-sounding laugh, and rose hastily,
to find herself face to face with a very tall woman, dressed in
indescribable rags, whom she at once guessed to be Old Jael, the
fortune-teller.

"Well done!" said the woman, with another mocking laugh. "'Tis a bold
young lady who comes alone to the Murderer's Hollow to gather flowers."

"Why, you come here yourself, it seems," said Calista, whose spirit
always rose against any attempt to frighten her; "why should I need any
more boldness than you?"

"Ah, but I go to many places where the young lady dare not go,"
answered the old woman; "and in the dead of night, too."

"I dare say," returned Calista; "but you see I come in broad day, and
for a good purpose, so I carry the blessing of God with me, and have
nothing to fear."

"Nothing!" repeated the old woman. "Not even the snakes!"

"I have often been here and have never seen any snakes," said Calista.

"Well, I like a bold spirit," said the old woman. "Don't pretty Missy
want her fortune told? Old Jael can tell her any fine things past and
future."

"I know the past for myself, and as for the future, it is in God's
hands," answered Calista; "he knows it, and that is far better than
knowing it myself."

"Mighty fine words!" said the old woman; "but maybe I can make the
proud young lady change her tune, when I tell her where she was—say
last Wednesday evening—peeping and looking for the red gold all alone
in the secret chamber!"

"I can do as much as that," said Calista, struck by a sudden thought;
"I can tell who was climbing up on an old wall, peeping through holes
and crannies like a cat."

The old Woman, who had evidently calculated greatly on the effect of
her words, drew back as if some one had struck her, and turned more
ashy pale than she was before.

"No, Mother Jael, I want none of your skill," said Calista, as she
turned to go. "As you have offered to tell my fortune, I will tell you
something in return: 'he that believeth on the Son of God hath eternal
life, and he that believeth not shall not see life, but the wrath of
God abideth on him.' I advise you to go to the meeting Wednesday night,
and learn what will do you good. Good-morning."

The woman nodded not ungraciously, and stood looking till Calista was
out of sight.

"You are a bold one, anyhow, and I like your spunk; but—Yes, we must
have her out of the way, or we shall do nothing."

Muttering thus to herself, she walked away in the opposite direction
with more activity than could have been expected.


Calista put her flowers in water, changed her draggled dress and shoes,
and then went to see Miss Druett, whom she found, to her surprise, up
and ready for breakfast.

"Are you able to go down?" asked Calista. "I was coming to ask if I had
better not stay at home and take care of you."

"Nonsense, child! I am not sick; it is only a cold. Where have you been
so early?"

"I have been in the Red Hollow after flowers, and I have met the
presiding genius of the place."

And Calista recounted her adventure.

"Were you not frightened?" asked Miss Druett.

"Not a bit! I believe I scared her a good deal more than she did me."

"Still, I don't like your meeting her."

"But, dear Miss Druett, I can't stay in the house all the time for fear
of Old Jael. Do you think, like Chloe, that she is a witch?"

"I think she is an unscrupulous, wicked woman, and that is bad enough,"
replied Miss Druett. "I don't like to have you lose one of your few
pleasures, but I must say I don't fancy your meeting her. How bright
you look!"

"I feel bright; I feel as if I were in a new world. Oh, Miss Druett, if
you would only find him too! Why won't you try?"

"There, don't talk about it, child," replied Miss Druett, hastily;
"pray that he may find me, and perhaps he will. Come, it is time to go
down."


Calista walked somewhat more slowly than usual this morning, and
reached the school-room just as the first bell rung. She went directly
to her desk and looked into it, half hoping to see the missing
needle-case, which she disliked losing, both for its own sake and
because she knew the trouble the loss would occasion at home. It was
not there, however, and her desk was exactly as she left it.

"It is very strange," thought Calista; "anyway, I am sure Mary did not
take it."

Mary Burns and Antoinette Diaments were the last to enter—the latter in
her riding-dress, which she had had no time to change. She had hoped
to reach school in time to restore the case to its place, but in this
she was disappointed; and as she looked at its beauty, she could hardly
make up her mind to return it at all.

"Calista is so giddy, Miss McPherson will think she lost it herself;
and so will Miss Meeks, if I can only get held of her first."

Mary Burns looked tired and worn with grief and watching, as, indeed,
she was; but her face, in all its sorrowful paleness, had a steadfast,
settled expression. She knew in whom she had put her trust, and she
did not believe he would desert her in the hour of need, however he
might suffer her to be tried. For this poor, plain, stammering tailor's
daughter had a faith which nothing could shake. She would have faced
all the sophistry of all the infidels in the world with the simple
unanswerable argument of St. John:

   "WE have SEEN him."

It was the custom on Monday morning for each person in the school-room,
beginning with Miss McPherson herself, to recite a verse from Holy
Scripture. The verses this morning were unusually significant to those
who were in the secrets of the past few days. Miss McPherson's was from
the thirty-second Psalm and fifth verse:

   "'I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou
forgavest the iniquity of my sin.'"

Miss Jessy's (with a beseeching glance at poor Mary) was:

   "'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'" (1 John 1:9.)

Miss Meeks (sharply, and with a glance in the same direction):

   "'Be sure your sin will find you out.'" (Numbers 32:23.)

It was Mary Burns's turn next, and she spoke up clearly, and with a
bright light in her usually pale blue eyes.

   "He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment
as the noonday." (Ps. 37:6.)

"How hardened she must be to choose that verse!" thought Miss Meeks.

But Miss McPherson and Miss Jessy exchanged a glance which said, "She
is innocent, whoever is guilty."

Antoinette was unfortunate. She had opened hastily to the same Psalm,
and, keeping her Bible in her lap (for she had quite forgotten to learn
a verse), she read the first her eye fell upon:

   "The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous is
merciful, and giveth." (Ps. 37:21.)

Calista's eyes brightened and her color deepened beautifully as she
repeated:

   "We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did
write, Jesus of Nazareth." (John 1:45.)

There was a short silence after Miss McPherson's prayer, is which
she asked that the innocent might be justified and the guilty led to
confession and amendment. Then she made a little speech. She said most
of those before her had heard of the loss of the needle-case from Miss
Stanfield's desk, and the suspicion which had fallen on one of their
number. If the matter had not become public already, she should not
have made it so, but she hoped all would suspend their judgment.

Then she asked, "Can any one throw any light on this matter?"

Then, as no one else said anything, Calista spoke modestly:

"Miss McPherson, there is one point at least in which Mary Burns can be
cleared. She said that she saw Antoinette come out of the school-room
at a quarter to nine, but Miss Meeks thought she must be wrong, because
Antoinette went away before eight."

She paused and looked at Antoinette, who gave her a vengeful glance in
return.

"Well, what then?" asked Miss McPherson, after waiting a moment for
Antoinette to speak.

"Tessy told me that her cousin came back because some accident happened
to the horse," answered Calista. "Antoinette staid in Tessy's room till
just before the quarter bell rung, and then went to the school-room, or
so Tessy thought. So Mary might have seen her, as she said."

"Is this true?" asked Miss McPherson of Antoinette.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Antoinette, temper and the wish for revenge
getting the better of her prudence. "I did not mean to say anything,
but, since Miss Stanfield seems determined to throw the blame upon me,
I must tell the whole story. I was in the school-room a moment, my
skirt came untied, and I stepped behind the study door to fasten it. As
I stood there, I saw Mary Burns come into the room and look into Miss
Stanfield's desk. She turned the things over till she found something,
and dropped it into her inside pocket. Then she took a book, shut the
desk, and went hastily out."

"You did not see what she took?" said Miss McPherson.

"No, ma'am. It was something pretty heavy, which pulled her pocket
down, and jingled a little."

"What do you say to this, Mary Burns?" asked Miss McPherson, turning to
her.

"It is not true, Miss McPherson. I did not turn over one thing. I took
up the 'Lady of the Lake' and read a little, and then I laid it down,
took the volume of Goldsmith, and carried it away. I have no more to
say."

"I am sure I don't know what to think," said Miss McPherson, much
perplexed.

"I should say it was all very plain," said Miss Meeks, not perplexed
at all, as, indeed, people seldom are who have made up their minds
beforehand. "Here is positive evidence on one side, and simple denial
on the other."

"Good!" thought Antoinette. "You might have held your tongue, Miss
Stanfield."

But another witness was to the fore on whom she had not calculated.
Elizabeth Howell had come a little late and sat down quietly by the
door. She now rose up, tall, fair, and prim, as delicate as an August
lily, in her light-gray bombazine and clean muslin kerchief and apron.

"I should like to speak to thee in private, Friend McPherson."

"What can she have to say?" thought Antoinette, but without much
misgiving. "She does not know anything about the matter. I took care of
that."

After a few minutes' conversation, Miss McPherson opened the door of
her private room and called—

"Miss Meeks, will you come in? Miss Burns, Miss Stanfield, Miss
Antoinette Diaments, Miss Settson, please come also. The young ladies
will recite their French grammar to Miss Jessy."


The party tolerably filled the little room. Elizabeth looked a little
flushed, and Miss McPherson both grieved and angry.

"You will please listen, Miss Meeks and young ladies, to what Elizabeth
Howell has to say."

"First, if Friend McPherson pleases, I should like, Calista, to hear
thee describe the needle-case."

Calista did so, taxing her memory to be exact in every particular.

"Precisely so!" said Elizabeth. "I saw Antoinette Diaments at her
cousin Richard Whitecar's, in Graywich, and she had and was using just
such a case as Calista describes."

"How could you see it, I should like to know, when I put it in my
pocket before you came into the room?" asked Antoinette, unguardedly.

"Then you admit that you had it!" said Miss McPherson.

Antoinette saw she had betrayed herself, and was sullenly silent.

"Please answer her question, Elizabeth."

"I saw the whole through the window, and reflected in the large mirror
opposite," answered Elizabeth. "I came in by the back way, as I often
do." (The two families being relations as well as neighbors.) "I stood
two or three minutes watching some kittens at play, and then looked
into the room. I could not see Antoinette—only her reflection in the
glass, and this case on the table, with the scissors, by her side.
Antoinette was using the thimble. I was rather struck, and it did occur
to me to wonder whether this was the needle-case that had made all the
trouble. Then Richard Whitecar came along and spoke to me, and I saw
Antoinette hastily gather up the things and put them in her pocket.
Then I felt quite sure. I meant to speak to Antoinette about the
matter, but had no private opportunity. It seemed to me this morning
that the attempt to throw blame on Mary Burns was a clear call to tell
what I knew."

There was a moment's silence, and then Miss McPherson said, in a
sterner tone than had ever been heard from her before—

"Antoinette, where is the needle-case?"

Antoinette was obstinately silent.

"Miss Meeks, you will please search Miss Diaments's room thoroughly,
and especially her travelling-basket and work-bag. Antoinette, stay
here—" (For Antoinette was moving toward the door). "Sit down on that
chair, and do not stir from it till I give you permission. I will have
this matter sifted to the bottom."

There was a short but very awkward pause till Miss Meeks returned
without the needle-case, and looking a good deal excited.

"I cannot find it," said she.

"Of course you can't, when it is not there!" said Antoinette, in a tone
of triumph.

"Look in her desk," was the next order.

"Look as much as you please!" said Antoinette insolently.

But her manner changed as Miss Meeks said pointedly, "There are some
things in Miss Diaments's room which need investigation."

"I will attend to that matter," said the principal. "Look in her
pockets."

Antoinette turned pale.

"I won't have my pockets searched!" she stammered. "It is a pity if the
daughter of one of the richest men in the state is to be insulted for
the sake of beggarly tailor's girl!"

Antoinette had kept fast hold of her work-bag, but in her agitation she
dropped it. It fell on the floor with a heavy, ringing sound.

Miss Meeks picked it up and opened it. There was the case.

"Antoinette, I beg for your own sake you will confess the whole
matter," said Miss McPherson, earnestly. "Tell the whole truth, my poor
child."

"I shall not tell anything!" answered Antoinette. "If you choose to
make a fuss about it you can. I guess you will lose more than I shall.
I don't think you will make much by quarrelling with the richest man in
the state for the sake of tippling old tailor Burns's daughter."

Those who knew Miss McPherson actually trembled for the effect of these
words. That lady, however, answered with a calmness more alarming than
any storm—

"Miss Diaments, you are no longer a member of this school. You will
remain in this room till I can send for your uncle. Mary Burns, my
dear, you are entirely cleared from the shadow of blame. Is she not,
Miss Meeks?"

"So far as this matter is concerned, certainly," said Miss Meeks; "but
I must remind her that but for certain past equivocations, to call them
by a mild name, I should not have suspected her."

"I know I have not always told the truth exactly, Miss Meeks," answered
Mary, humbly. "I have been easily frightened and confused, and
sometimes I have seemed to tell lies when I did not mean to. But I hope
I shall be enabled to do better, and not think so much of what men will
think of me."

Miss Meeks was melted. She kissed Mary, and told her she had no doubt
she meant to be a very good girl.

"You will now all return to your places," said Miss McPherson. "Miss
Meeks will clear Miss Burns, and I hope we shall none of us be the
worse for the lesson we have received."

Miss McPherson spent some time in trying to persuade Antoinette to
a confession, but Antoinette was obstinate. The fact was, she did
not believe Miss McPherson would dare to expel her, and took all her
persuasive gentleness for a method of getting gracefully out of the
scrape.

"Very well, I shall say no more," said Miss McPherson. And rising she
led Antoinette to a smaller room which opened from her own, and which
was used in extreme cases as a kind of chamber of penitence. "You will
remain in this room, seeing no one, till I can see your uncle, and make
arrangements for you to return with him."

"I must put up my things," said Antoinette, for the first time showing
some alarm.

"I shall myself look over and put up your things with the assistance of
Mrs. McGregor."

Antoinette now gave way entirely, and with tears and sobs and the most
abject entreaties begged to be allowed to go to her room, if only for a
few minutes, to put up her own things.

"No," answered Miss McPherson, her suspicions confirmed by Antoinette's
conduct. "I must attend to that matter myself. The servant will bring
your dinner, but you will not leave this room."

So saying Miss McPherson left the room, shutting and locking the door.
She was sorry for the girl, but hers was not the false compassion
which will expose the innocent to contamination on the mere chance
of reforming the guilty. She found more than enough in her search of
Antoinette's room to confirm her resolution. It was astonishing to see
how many little articles, some of considerable value, which had been
given up for lost by their owners, were found carefully hidden in boxes
and under beds. It seemed evident that Antoinette must have carried on
the business of petty thieving almost ever since she had been in the
school.

Antoinette departed in the afternoon, regretted by no one, unless by
Tessy, who had been the greatest sufferer by her meanness. I may as
well say that neither her father nor mother believed one word against
their daughter, her mother declaring that Antoinette never told a lie
in her life. Two or three large sums paid on account of shoplifting
performances, and a final disgraceful elopement, partly opened her
father's eyes, but her mother persisted in declaring that it was all
the fault of the influences under which poor Antoinette was thrown at
that abominable Cohansey school.

This is no fancy sketch, as many a teacher can testify. It is no
wonder, seeing of what it is the root and spring, that God abhors
covetousness.



CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

EVIL INFLUENCES.

"WELL, I am sorry for Antoinette, after all," said Calista, as the
girls gathered in the play-ground.

"So am not I," returned Mary Settson. "She brought it all on herself,
and deserves a far worse punishment."

"I don't deny that, but still I am sorry for her. And, Mary, what would
have become of all of us if somebody had not been sorry for us while we
were yet sinners?"

"But she was so mean to try to throw all on poor Mary."

"That is true. I don't extenuate her fault in the least, but still I am
sorry for her."

"Well, I ain't so sure, after all, about this business," said Charity
Latch, who was a great worshipper of wealth. "It seems a great deal
more likely that a poor beggar like Mary Burns should steal than that
Antoinette should."

"I should like to know what makes Mary Burns a beggar," said two or
three girls at once, and Emma added, "Did she ever beg anything of you?"

"If she did, she didn't get it," said Belle. "We all know Mary is poor,
but there is not a girl in the school less of a beggar than she. I
think she even goes too far the other way. She just hates to receive
a favor. As to Antoinette, there can be no doubt. She not only took
the needle-case, but a good many other things besides, my button-hole
scissors and cornelian necklace, that I thought I lost in the street,
among others. One would think she need not have done that, when she had
such lovely cameos of her own."

"I am glad Mary is cleared, anyhow," observed Calista. "Dear little
soul, how pretty she looked when she stood up and said her verse! And I
am glad I have my needle-case back, but I am sorry for Antoinette, and
I think—" Calista hesitated a little and blushed as she added—"I think
we ought to pray for her."

"What, is Saul among the prophets?" said Belle. "Are you going to be
another Mary Settson? We sinners are likely to be deserted entirely."

Mary put on her "martyr face," as Belle called it, and turned away.
Calista only said, gently and seriously—

"Don't, Belle. I know you don't mean any harm, but don't make fun of
religion or things connected with it. Think if your words should come
true!"

"Well, I won't," said Belle, more seriously; "I know you are right,
even as a matter of good taste. But tell us, Calista, do you really
mean to be a Christian, like Mary and Clarissa Whitman?"

"I don't know that I shall be like anybody," replied Calista, "but I do
really mean to be a Christian if I can."

"Well, for my part, I'd wait and see if I was going to persevere,
if I were you, before I spoke out so plainly," said Charity. "But I
don't call any girl in this school a consistent Christian, for my
part. There's Clary Whitman—just look at her playing battledore and
shuttlecock with Emma Ross."

"Well, where is the harm? I don't know anything in the Bible against
playing battledore and shuttlecock, do you? I am sure Clary Whitman
is a good girl, if there ever was one," said Belle, warmly; for she
was one of those happy spirits that delight in the goodness of other
people. "Come, Calista, will you have a game, or do you think it is
wicked?"

"Not a bit," said Calista; "but I can't play now, Belle. I must find
Mary; I have something to tell her."

Calista found Mary Settson sitting pensively in the school-room, and
sat down by her.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Surely you don't mind Belle's words.
You know she means no harm."

"I don't know how you can say that, when she laughs at religion as she
does."

"Oh, she was not laughing at religion exactly, she was laughing at us.
Besides, when I told her I did not think it was right, she stopped
directly. But I want to tell you ever so many things, Mary—so many, I
don't know where to begin. But, first of all, Mary, I have found him,
as my verse said. I have found Jesus of Nazareth."

The little snake of jealousy and ill-humor which had been hissing in
Mary's heart for a few minutes was silent and dived into his den. She
kissed Calista.

"Tell me how it was," said she.

"It began with mother's Bible, and some letters I found in her desk—for
you must know that, thanks to Miss Druett, I have all mother's things.
I made up my mind that I must and would be a Christian, and then I
found a letter—such a letter!—from Aunt Priscilla to mother.

"That upset me again, for I knew I must forgive, or my own sins would
never be forgiven; and I felt sure I never could. But Sunday evening
Mr. Alger preached in the old red meeting-house, and I went to hear
him. His text was,—

   "'Behold the Lamb of God!'

"Oh, Mary, I can't tell it all, but he made me see him in the garden
and on the cross, and all for me. All the bitterness seemed to go out
of my heart, and I felt I could forgive anything—even the cruelty to my
poor, gentle mother. I said,—

   "'Lord, if thou wilt—'

"And he did. I did not do it at all."

"I am sure I am very thankful," said Mary; "I did not suppose Mr. Alger
was a very eloquent preacher."

"I don't know whether he was eloquent or not," said Calista; "I did
not think of the preacher at all—it was what he said. He brought me
just the help I wanted. And we are to have another meeting Wednesday
evening, and perhaps a Sunday-school."

"I rather wonder your aunt should let you go," said Mary.

"Oh, I did not ask her. Miss Druett let me. I am to be Miss Druett's
girl now. But, all the same, I mean to qualify myself for a teacher,
as you advised me. I think one can do as much good in that way as any
other; don't you?"

"Yes, indeed; but I hope you won't ever have to work for a living,
Calista."

"Oh, I shall not mind, if only I am as well and strong as I am now. By
the way, when is your father coming home?"

"Oh, not for a long time, and that is something I had to tell you,"
replied Mary. "Father has written from Princeton for Alice and me to
join him there, and we are going a long journey with him up to Vermont
or somewhere. This is the last day I shall have in school."

"Oh, how sorry I am! I was counting on having you sit with me."

"I will next term. And, Calista, if you like, you can have my place in
the drawing-class. There are three weeks to vacation, and you might do
quite a good deal in that time."

"Oh, thank you! I shall like it ever so much! I have all mother's
pencils and paints. But I am so sorry you are going away. I shall miss
you more than ever now."

"You will have a better friend than I," said Mary. "I shall feel a
great deal easier about you now that I know you have learned to love
him," she added, feeling that her sympathy with her friend had not been
as hearty as it ought to have been. In fact, the little snake had put
out his head again and whispered that it was very strange Calista had
been so affected by the preaching of such a dull old man as Mr. Alger,
while she (Mary) had talked and urged in vain. Surely Calista ought to
have listened to her. Probably it was only some passing excitement—some
mere emotion, and not a real conversion. But Mary had come to know the
voice of the serpent, and she, so to speak, set her heel on his head
with a force that sent him crushed and wounded to his den.

The next day Mary went away, and Belle Adair came to occupy
Antoinette's vacant place. She was not precisely the companion Calista
would have chosen, but they got on well together. Belle recognized the
force of principle which made Calista absolutely refuse to whisper or
to take any notice of any little notes written in school hours. In her
turn she did Calista good by her orderly habits and punctuality in
doing the hour's work in its own hour.

They soon became great friends, and every one noticed that Belle
had entirely left off her habit of jesting on serious subjects, and
that she even came down sharply on Charity for a riddle founded on
Scripture, telling her that was not the way to use the Bible. If
she had lived in these days, when "Bible Puzzles" are published in
religious newspapers, perhaps she would not have been so particular.


At the Old Stanfield Manor things were a good deal altered. Miss
Priscilla scrimped, and saved, and scolded, but did not interfere as
usual with Calista, and it seemed, sometimes, as if she were even
trying to conciliate her niece.

Calista was sure her aunt had more than one interview with Zeke and
Jael. At first Miss Priscilla would steal out to the barn or the edge
of the wood, but at last the old woman would come boldly to the house
and ask for Miss Stanfield. Then the two would be closeted together for
an hour, and Jael would go away laden with provisions. These interviews
usually took place on Sunday morning or evening, when Miss Druett and
Calista were at church. For Miss Druett had taken to going to the
Sunday evening meetings, and had actually given something to help on
the repairs of the old meeting-house.

"There goes Jael now!" said Calista, as they were walking home on
Wednesday evening, and came in sight of the house just in time to see
Jael leaving it with a large bundle in her arms.

"What is that old woman after?" asked Calista. "Miss Druett, what does
it mean, do you suppose?"

Miss Druett sighed. "I am afraid it means mischief, child. I wish Mr.
Settson would come home, though I hardly know what he could do if he
were here. Nobody could say that your aunt is insane. My only hope is
that she will become disgusted with the rapacity of these people, as
she was before. However, if Mr. Settson were here, he might find some
means of driving them away, though I fancy they are like some animals
which are said never to commit depredations in their own neighborhoods."

"Did you notice Tom Edgar to-night?" asked Calista.

"I noticed that he sung very finely, and seemed much affected. He seems
very regular in his attendance."

"I heard him tell Mr. Alger that he hoped he had found the Lord at
last. And what do you think Mr. Heminway said?"

"Something very encouraging, I dare say."

"He said, 'Well, I hope he has; but he has been a dreadful wild, hard
case, and for my part I don't believe in sudden conversions.'

"Then old Brother Davis said, 'Brother Heminway, it's a good thing you
wasn't in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost; you'd never have believed
in those three thousand being taken into the church.'

"And then Mr. Heminway frowned, and said he didn't believe in using
Scripture in that way."

"In what way?"

"In the way that went against him, I suppose," answered Calista,
shrewdly. "I have noticed people seldom do. But I wanted to ask you
about the Sunday-school, Miss Druett. Mr. Alger wishes me to take a
class of little colored girls."

"Well, I have no objections, if it does not tire you too much. You will
learn more than you will teach for a time, but that won't hurt you or
your scholars either."

"Mr. Alger asked me if you would teach a class."

"I would if I were able. I used to teach a Sunday-class years ago, in
Philadelphia, and liked it very much."

"And don't you feel able?"

"No, child. Oh, I am not sick; you need not open your eyes so wide,
and look so alarmed! But it tires me to talk much lately, and I shall
have to be a little more careful of my health than I have been. I am
beginning to find out that I have bones and nerves to ache and keep me
awake nights, as well as other people. But as to yourself, I think the
teaching will be very good for you. You will never find out how much
you don't know till you try to tell what you do know."

"I have found that out already, helping Miss Meeks. But I do wish you
would have a doctor, Miss Druett."

"Nonsense, child! I am not sick; what should I want a doctor for?"

The next day Calista had been out in the pasture hunting mushrooms, and
coming back across the little burying-ground as the nearest way, she
stopped to pull some tall weeds from her grandfather's grave. As she
did so, she saw that the long grass had been disturbed and a little
earth scattered about.

"Oh ho, Mr. Ground-squirrel, are you here!" said she. "I think you
might find a better place."

As she moved away the long grass with her foot, she caught sight of
something glittering. She bent down and drew it out. It was a long
purse, such as people used in those days, and are beginning to use
again, and well filled with coin and bills. She knew it in a moment—her
aunt Priscilla's purse. How in the world did it come there?

She did not stop to think, but hurried home and went straight to the
sitting-room, mushrooms and all. Miss Priscilla was nodding over her
book, Miss Druett sewing, as usual.

"Aunt Priscilla, have you lost anything?" said she.

Miss Priscilla started, put her hand in her pocket mechanically, and
turned pale as ashes.

"My purse!" said she, in a kind of shrill whisper. "Where is my purse?"

"When did you have it last?" asked Miss Druett.

"Last night, at the back kitchen door. Oh, what shall I do? Who has
taken it?"

"Here it is," said Calista, producing it. "Now, where do you guess I
found it?"

"Out by the door," said Miss Druett.

"Not a bit. You are not even warm."

"Then you must tell us."

"That I will, for I am sure you will never guess." And Calista told
where she had discovered the purse.

Miss Priscilla looked more scared than ever.

"You—you don't suppose he came and got it, do you, Druey?"

"Your father, do you mean? No, indeed. I think some one took it and hid
it for purposes of their own—probably to make a parade of telling where
it was and restoring it."

"Exactly," said Calista; "I never thought of that."

"It was very odd that you should find it."

"I would not if I had not stopped to pull the weeds from grandfather's
grave. Aunt Priscilla, why don't you have that place put in order? I
should not dare go near it, only that ivy never poisons me. It is a
shame to have it so neglected."

"Well, well, perhaps I will some time," said Miss Priscilla, after she
had counted her money and found it was all there. "You are a lucky
girl, Calista. You are always finding things. Who knows but you would
find the pirates' gold, if you were to look for it?"

"I never shall find it, because I never shall look for it," said
Calista, boldly. "I believe, as Cassius says, that if there is any such
treasure, it would be bloody gold and bring ill fortune to any one that
touched it."

"Why do you let your thoughts run so much on such matters, Priscilla?"
said Miss Druett. "Suppose you found a thousand pounds of gold, what
good would it do you? You would never spend it or give it away, and any
minute you might be called to leave it."

Miss Priscilla looked as if she thought "Druey" had suddenly gone mad.

"What do you mean?" said she.

"I mean what I say," said Miss Druett, "and I am going to free my mind
for once. You know that you must die, like all the rest of us. It is
the only event to which we can look forward with any certainty. You
cannot take money into the grave with you. Shrouds have no pockets,
and a coffin is made only just large enough to hold the corpse it is
meant for. Perhaps this very night you will hear the summons—then whose
shall those things be that you have prepared? Come, Priscy, we have
been wandering in the wilderness of this world a great many years; let
us set our faces heavenward, asking the way thither, and go heme to God
together."

Calista had often noticed the curious musical chord in Miss Druett's
voice, but she had never heard its tones so rich and harmonious as now.
She sprung forward in her usual impulsive way, threw her arms round
Miss Druett's neck, and kissed her.

"Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed. "Oh, do, Aunt Priscilla!"

"Do what?" asked Miss Priscilla, sullenly. "I will tell you what I
won't do. I won't have my house turned into a Methodist meeting-house.
If you must believe in such nonsense, keep it to yourself. I haven't
made any objection to your running off to meeting and all that, but I
won't have any such stuff here, I tell you that."

Just then Chloe opened the door with a handful of letters.

"Here's the mail, and here's one for you, Miss Calista. You are in luck
to-day."

"In more ways than one it seems," said Calista. "Oh how sorry I am!"
she exclaimed, as she read.

"What now?" asked Miss Druett.

"Mr. Settson and the girls are not coming home for several weeks,"
replied Calista. "Mary says,—

   "'Papa has heard of something very important, which will take him to
Boston, so he will be away for some weeks longer. He says you must keep
my place in the drawing-class till I come.'"

"Drawing, indeed!" said Miss Priscilla. "Spinning would be more to the
purpose. You shall stay at home and learn to spin."

"Remember the child belongs to me, Priscilla; that was part of the
bargain."

"Well, well, have her; I don't care. I must go to town this afternoon,
Druey, and I want you to go with me."

"Very well," said Miss Druett. "I have an errand of my own. Calista,
stay within bounds, and don't go running over the woods. We shall
have you bitten by one of the gray snakes, or killed by a wild pig or
something."

"I don't in the least believe in the gray snakes," said Calista. "I
have never seen one yet, as often as I have been in the Red Hollow. But
I shall not go out of the house, for I have a bit of work to finish for
the fair."

"Oh, it is to-morrow, is it? Whom do you mean to stay with?—For I
suppose you must stop all night with some one."

"Emma Ross asked me to stay with her. Clary Whitman and Belle Adair are
going to be there, so we shall have a fine time. Elizabeth Howell won't
come, because she says she has not a clear evidence that it is right.
The girls laugh at her, but I don't see anything to laugh at. It seems
to me if you are not sure that a thing is right, it makes that thing
wrong for you."

"She is quite correct. Keep that rule in mind, and you will save
yourself a deal of trouble."

When her aunt and Miss Druett were gone, Calista established herself in
the front room with the child's apron she was ornamenting in crewels.
Thanks to her mother's store of working materials, she was now able to
do something independently.

The front parlor was kept in decent order, only by the exertions of
Miss Druett, and hither Calista resorted with her work, pulling down
the inside venetian blinds, so that she could see without being seen.
She had not sat long before she saw old Jael come to the kitchen door
and speak to Chloe. By leaning a little out of the window she could
hear the whole conversation.

"Where's your mistress?"

"What's that to you?"

"Come, old woman, keep a civil tongue, will you? Is Miss Stanfield at
home?"

"She's gone to town, if you must know."

"Has she found her purse?"

"She hasn't lost it. I saw it in her hands just as she went away."

"But, I tell you, she did lose it," said the old woman, in a voice
which betrayed some agitation. "She lost it last night, I know."

"Oh, you do, do you?" thought Calista. "I thought so."

"Well, if I was a fortune-teller, I'd tell straighter than that," said
Chloe, in a tone of great contempt. "Don't I know Miss Priscy? I tell
you if she had lost her purse last night, not one in this house would
have a wink of sleep till it was found. Besides, I saw it in her hands
not an hour ago—the very long green purse she always carries; so you
needn't talk to me."

"Well, well, I dare say you are right, only I thought I heard something
about it. Get me a drink of cider, Chloe, there's a good soul. You'll
be old yourself some day."

"I ain't far from it now," mid Chloe, relenting a little, as it seemed
by her tone. "Then sit down in the shade, and I'll give you some cider,
and your pail full of skim milk if you want it."

Calista heard the kitchen door shut and bolted, while Chloe departed on
her errand.

But Jael did not sit down in the shade. She hurried across the road
with wonderful swiftness, and disappeared for a moment behind General
Stanfield's monument. When she appeared again, her face was a curious
mixture of anger, confusion, and fear. She got back just in time to
meet Chloe as she unbarred the door.

"What took you across the road in such a hurry?" asked Chloe. "I saw
you from the buttery window."

"I thought I saw a lame quail," said the old woman.

"Smart you must be, to be taken in by a lame quail! There, there's a
fine pail of milk and some cold potatoes for you. Why don't you and
your husband settle down like decent folks, and have good times?"

"Oh, we have our good times now and then as well as you," chuckled the
old woman. "Thank you all the same. Good-bye."

"She ain't a witch, that's certain," muttered Chloe to herself, as she
watched Jael out of sight. "Maybe she is something as bad or worse;
anyhow, a pail of milk won't hurt her."

Calista laughed behind the blinds to think how she had circumvented the
old woman. But she did not know all the plans in that wicked old head,
by a great deal.



CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

THE FAIR.

THE fair was a great success, though a good deal of the pleasure was
marred to Calista by the absence of several of her friends. Miss
McPherson had been called to New York to see Miss Jessy off for
Scotland, whither she had gone to attend to a small inheritance which
had fallen to her. Miss Meeks was with her sister, who was sinking in
a rapid decline. Mary Settson was going about with her father, now and
then writing a long letter to Calista—now and then, but not very often,
for postage was a consideration in those days, when every single letter
cost eighteen cents and a double one a great deal more.

The law was a very whimsical one. You might use one sheet the size
of a barn door, if you could get one; but if you put in a second bit
of paper, though no larger than a visiting card, you must pay double
postage. Under such circumstances, a letter was a grave consideration.

In Miss Jessy's absence, Clary Whitman took charge of the school table,
assisted by Calista and Belle Adair, who had come back to Cohansey for
the purpose. Everything went off beautifully. Calista had hardly ever
been out in an evening before, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. For once
in her life she had the pleasure of appearing in a handsome new frock—a
sprigged India muslin, which she had found among her mother's things.

For the satisfaction of my young lady readers, I will just mention that
it was made with a short waist, of the style then called Grecian, very
large gigot sleeves with stiffeners, a lace cape with ruffles, crossed
and fastened behind, and a broad blue silk belt, fastened with a gilt
buckle.

Every one noticed how very handsome she looked, and what ladylike,
modest manners she had, and every one wondered how she came to be there
at all. Almost all the articles on the table were sold and brought good
prices. Old Mr. Fabian himself bought Mary Burns's rug to put under his
office table, and his wife even bought Charity Latch's work-bag, saying
to herself that it would do to hold clothes-pins, and it was a pity the
poor thing should be mortified when she had done her best.

Clarissa Whitman, Belle Adair, and Calista spent the night with Emma
Ross. Bell and Calista, slept together, and as they were going to bed,
Calista said, in the most natural way in the world:

"Oh, Emma, will you lend me a Testament?"

"I've got one for you," said Belle. "It is in my trunk. I thought
a pocket Testament would be convenient if you were teaching a
Sunday-class, so I brought you one."

"Oh, thank you," said Calista, gratefully. "I have wanted one ever so
much. How very pretty!"

"Do you suppose Miss Stanfield will let you keep it?" asked Emma. "I
heard that she would not allow one in the house, and when she and Miss
Druett found an old one somewhere, they trampled it all to pieces and
then burned it up."

"Nonsense!" said Calista, laughing. "My poor aunt is not quite so bad
as that. Miss Druett and I each have one, and we read together every
day. But I suppose people tell all sorts of things about our family."

"Indeed they do. Such stories—" Emma began, but Belle interrupted her—

"Don't tell her, Emma. What is the use of repeating such things? I am
of my stepmother's opinion about that. Some one came to her with a
story of what Mrs. So-and-so had said. Mamma checked her at once, in
that tremendously dignified way she has when she chooses.

"'Please don't tell me if it is anything unpleasant,' said she. 'If it
is anything agreeable, I shall be glad to hear it.'"

"Well, I dare say you are right," said Emma, smiling, but blushing a
little; "so I will tell Calista that Mr. Alger said she was one of the
greatest helps he had in his work at the mills. He told pa so."

"What a sweet temper Emma has!" said Belle. "She is a little too fond
of gossip though."

"She hears a good deal of it, I presume," said Calista. "Perhaps no one
is quite as careful as they should be, unless it is Elizabeth Howell."

"Or yourself."

"Well, I am not under any very great temptations. Miss Druett does not
talk about people at all, and Aunt Priscilla calls them all fools."

"I should not think your religion and your aunt would agree very well,"
Belle ventured to say.

"Oh, well—she snaps sometimes, but either she is not so sharp as she
used to be, or I don't mind it so much. I really get on quite nicely.
But, please, don't talk for a little, Belle. I want to read my chapter
and say my prayers."

"I will be as mute as a fish at Quaker meeting," said Belle. "But don't
keep all the good to yourself. Read your chapter aloud."

Calista did so, and Belle listened with evident interest; and when
Calista knelt down, she sat quite still till she had finished.

"I'll tell you what, Calista, you are a comfortable sort of Christian
to be with," said Belle, when they were both in bed and the light was
out. "You don't put on a long face, and look all the time as if you
were afraid something dreadful was going to be done or said, like—"

"Hush, now! I won't have you censorious," said Calista.

"Well, I won't say it, then; but you know who I mean, all the same."

"You two would be the best friends in the world if you would only come
to understand one another," said Calista.

"How are you to come to an understanding with a person who always
takes it for granted that you mean to say and do the very worst thing
possible?" demanded Belle, with some heat.

"Oh, come; you judge too hardly. M—, that person is naturally inclined
to low spirits and brooding. It is very different with me."

"Yes, I know that. But if she is a Christian, why doesn't she try to
overcome such a disposition as that?"

"She does try. And anyhow, Belle, it is better to be a faulty
Christian, who knows her faults and tries to conquer them, than not to
be a Christian at all."

"Well, I don't know; I don't think I would try unless I could be a
perfect Christian—consistent in all things."

"If your rule had been followed out, we should never have had any
Christian Church at all," said Calista. "There was not one of the
Apostles that we know anything about but had some fault."

"Oh, Calista!—St. John!"

"Well, he was for calling down fire on his enemies; and St. Peter
certainly had his faults, and so had St. Paul. I don't think that
excuse will stand for much at the last day. Come, Belle, do think it
over again, and without delay. Your time may be very short, you know.
Think of poor little Lawrence!"

"Well, I will; I promise you I will. Now we must go to sleep, or we
shall never be ready to get up."

Calista was, as Belle said, "a comfortable Christian," both to herself
and others. As some one said about Christiana, in the "Pilgrim's
Progress,"—"she never was in Doubting Castle at all."

Probably her vigorous health had something to do with the matter,
though I think a great deal more is made of this excuse—"the state of
my health"—than is desirable or justifiable. I have known a man impute
all his dryness and lack of interest in religious matters to the state
of his health, when that same state of health did not hinder him from
taking the liveliest interest in the price of stocks or the report of
the last ball-game. I have seen a lady sit down contentedly with the
same excuse, who was as much occupied with her new dress as though
the fate of the Christian Church depended on the decision between a
princesse and a polonaise. Besides, what is that religious experience
worth which deserts and leaves us in the dark when we need it most?
This by the way.

But Calista saved herself a great deal of trouble by the simplicity
with which she accepted the gospel. She did not ask herself whether
her repentance was deep enough, or her joy high enough, or her motives
pure enough. The Saviour said "Come," and she came. He had said, "Be
ye holy, for I am holy," and she would try her best to be so to please
him, trusting to his promise to help her, and his love to forgive and
wash away her offences when she failed.

To be sure, Aunt Priscilla was trying, and even Miss Druett was
sometimes sharp and sarcastic, though she had softened much of late.
Her future was uncertain, and she was much troubled at the increasing
influence of old Jael; but the Lord had expressly said,—

   "'In the world ye shall have tribulation,'"

and he had also said,—

   "'Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world'" (John 16:33).

Her greatest trouble had arisen from the return of her angry and
revengeful feelings about her aunt. This distressed her so much that
one night she opened her trouble to her pastor. Mr. Alger listened, and
gave her sound and useful advice.

"That is nothing strange," said he. "It is what every one has more
or less experience of. Satan is not going to give up any part of his
kingdom without a struggle, and there is always a traitor within to
help him. What you must do is this, hold no parley with the enemy, no,
not for an instant. Every minute of delay makes the work of resistance
tenfold harder. Lift your heart at once to the source of all strength.
Pray for your enemy as well as for yourself, and then resolutely turn
your thoughts from the subject, think of something else, and leave your
champion to fight the battle for you.

   "'Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.'

"And I'll tell you what, my dear child, Christians would save
themselves a great deal of trouble if they would learn this one
lesson,—to control their thoughts, and make them work, so to speak,
in harness. I can understand, from the little I know of your family
affairs, that your position is a very trying one, but do not give way
to fretfulness or despair. Wait on the Lord and be doing good, and fret
not thyself in any wise. And, by the by, study well that thirty-seventh
Psalm, and you will come to feel as if it were made for you."

Calista obeyed, and found the wisdom of the good minister's advice. She
was studying very hard this vacation, with Miss Druett's assistance,
who fully approved her plan of qualifying herself for a teacher. She
also learned to spin, to please Miss Priscilla, who actually gave her
a shilling as a reward when Calista brought her her first skein of
smooth fine thread to show what progress she had made. She took great
pains with her class of little girls, very few of whom could read, and
was gratified with their improvement. She tried hard to read Mitford's
"Greece," and persevered through a volume and a half, when she gave it
up, and took to "Plutarch's Lives" instead.

Zeke and his wife seemed for the present to have disappeared from the
neighborhood. Miss Priscilla was more quiet and reasonable than usual,
and, on the whole, it was the most comfortable vacation Calista had
known.


But a very great sorrow was about to fall on Calista,—the greatest
sorrow she had ever known since the death of her mother.

Miss Druett had been troubled with a cough for two or three years,
which cough had grown worse since her apparently slight attack of
illness in the summer. Still Calista, in her ignorance, did not think
of her being ill. True, she was somewhat thin and languid, but this
Calista attributed to the great heat of the weather. Surely she could
not be ill when her eyes were so wonderfully bright and she had such a
beautiful color in her cheeks.

At last, however, even Calista's eyes were opened. Miss Druett one
Sunday evening fainted in church, and, though she revived so as to
walk slowly home with the assistance Chloe and Calista, she never went
again. The next day she sent for the doctor and Mr. Fabian.

Dr. Elsmore soon finished his examination, and on Miss Druett's
demanding to know the truth, he told her that, though she might linger
a few days or weeks, there was no recovery possible, and the end might
come at any time.

"God's will be done," said Miss Druett. "I should not have a regret but
for the child; but she is in his hands, and will be cared for."

Mr. Fabian came, and with him she had quite a long private
conversation. Then she seemed to have given up the world altogether,
and lay patient and smiling, waiting till the change should come.

Calista, at last awakened to her friend's true condition, staid by
her night and day, hardly leaving the room except for her meals and a
run in the fresh air now and then, when Miss Druett insisted upon it.
She could not think; she dared not give way to grief. Her whole being
seemed to be given up to the work of caring for her friend, and making
her last days more comfortable.

Mr. Alger and Mr. Lee came to see her; the former almost daily, and
she seemed to enjoy their visits and their prayers, but she was unable
to talk much at a time. Calista spent hours in reading the Bible and
singing old familiar hymns, to the great but secret annoyance of Miss
Priscilla. Miss Priscilla did not, could not, and would not believe
that, "Druey" was going to die. It was all nonsense; she was a little
unwell, and gave way instead of exerting herself and riding out. She
was always thinking about herself and her bad feelings, just as though
she, Miss Priscilla, was not a great deal worse. Then, veering round
all at once, she declared it was all the fault of old Alger and his
Methodistical cant putting gloomy ideas into Druey's head. It was
coming home from those meetings in the dew which had brought on her
cough; but she would get over it—yes, she would get over it in a few
days. Oh, yes, if she wanted wine, she must have it, no doubt. Doctors
were always making all the expense they could.

"You can go down and get a bottle of that old Madeira," she said to
Chloe; "get anything she fancies or the doctor orders. But it is a
great shame; I shall die in the poor-house—I know I shall."

"Well, what hurt will that do you?" asked Chloe, who spoke her mind on
all occasions. "The next minute after you are dead, it won't make any
odds to you whether you died in a poor-house or a palace."

Miss Priscilla seized her favorite volume of Rousseau's "Confessions,"
made as if to throw it at the bold speaker, but thought better of it,
and contented herself with a threatening look, as usual.

"I really will discharge that woman; she grows more impudent every
day," she said to herself as Chloe left the room; but she had said so
at least once a month for the last twenty years, and still Chloe staid
on.

Miss Druett died peacefully at last, not without warning enough to send
for Mr. Alger and Mr. Fabian.

Miss Priscilla refused to believe it at first, then grew angry, then
fell to crying, and finally into a fit, which seemed for a time likely
to end her life with that of her friend. She really was very ill for
several days, and Chloe had her hands full with her.

Meantime old Sally did the work and attended to Calista, who needed
such attendance. The strain being taken off, she realized how severe
it had been by the fatigue she felt, and for several days after the
funeral, she could hardly sit up or occupy herself in anything. She
could think of nothing but her departed friend, and, as usually happens
in such cases, she was somewhat morbid. She went over and over with
all their past intercourse, and while she remembered a hundred acts of
kindness and self-sacrifice unmarked at the time, she remembered, too,
with acute remorse, many faults on her own side—pert replies, teasing
and fretfulness over her lessons.

"Oh, if she would only come back just for a minute! If I could only see
her just once more!" is the cry of the bereaved; "but I never can—never
in all this world."

Happy they who can take refuge in the thought,—

   "But we shall meet again where there is no more parting;—"

And a thousand thousand times more to be pitied than the most desolate
Christian on earth is he to whom death ends all—he who with his dead
buries his hope.

It was well for Calista that time brought with it the need for
exertion. On the fourth day after the funeral Mr. Fabian called, and
Calista was sent for down to the parlor. It seemed to her that she
could hardly drag herself down the stairs, or attend to anything when
she got there; but she made the effort, and was rewarded by feeling
better and brighter for the exercise.

Mr. Fabian was very kind and sympathetic, and nearly set Calista's
tears flowing again; but she made a great effort to check them, and to
give her whole mind to the matter before her.

"I do not know, Miss Calista, whether you are aware that your late
friend, Miss Druett, made a will."

"No, sir," said Calista, as Mr. Fabian seemed to expect a reply.

"Did she ever tell you anything about her business matters?"

"Yes, once. She told me she had a house in Philadelphia, and that she
had received some money from England, from her father I think she
said; but she did not tell me how much, only that she had enough for
her old age. Latterly she has bought my clothes and given me a little
pocket-money now and then."

"Exactly. I see you know how to make a clear statement. The house in
Philadelphia to which you allude was hers only for life. But she has
about three thousand dollars invested in good securities, and this
property will be yours when you are twenty-one. Try to control your
feelings, my dear Miss Stanfield," as Calista's eyes filled. "It is of
importance that you should understand these matters. There is also the
further sum of seven hundred and twenty dollars and seventy cents,"
continued Mr. Fabian, taking out his memorandum-book and opening his
glasses; "this also belongs to you, with the exception of a legacy
of fifty dollars to Mr. Alger, and twenty dollars each to Chloe and
David. Her books, pictures, papers, and a few ornaments, are yours; her
clothes of every description she leaves to Miss Stanfield."

"I am glad she remembered Mr. Alger," said Calista; "he has been so
kind, and so have the servants. I should like to give a little present
to Cassius and Sally, Mr. Fabian. They have always been so good to me,
and I don't know what we should have done without them since aunt has
been sick."

"It shall be attended to," said Mr. Fabian. "I am glad you spoke of it.
But now, Calista, we must decide what is to become of you. Where would
you like to live? At Miss McPherson's, supposing she has room for you?"

"I should like that best of anything, I think, though Mr. Settson has
sometimes spoken of my staying with his daughters. Still, on some
accounts I should like the school best."

"Perhaps we may let the matter rest till Mr. Settson returns before
coming to any final decision. But what will you do in the mean time?"

"I must stay here, at least till aunt is better," said Calista. "I
cannot go away and leave her sick in bed."

"Cannot Chloe attend to her?"

"Hardly, so long as she has all the work of the house to do beside. I
do not think, however, that I could go on living with Aunt Priscilla
alone when she is about again. I must confess I am afraid of her in her
bad moods. And there is another reason why I should not like to stay
here alone with her, though I hardly know whether I ought to mention
it," said Calista, hesitating.

"I think you had better tell me all," said Mr. Fabian. "It shall go no
farther, I promise you. What is the reason?"

"It is that Aunt Priscilla is so under the influence of that woman
Jael, the old treasure-seeker's wife," said Calista, lowering her
voice. "I don't know whether you know anything of her."

"Yes, indeed! But, Calista, is that possible? Why do you think so?"

Calista briefly gave her reasons: "Miss Druett was very much disturbed
when she heard these people had appeared again, and said that Aunt
Priscilla had had dealings with them before."

"Do you think your aunt can be in her right mind?"

"I don't know. She is very sharp and acute about her business, and
looks after everything about the farm. She flies into fearful rages
sometimes, but other people do that."

"Very true. But to traffic with those wretches—really Settson ought to
attend to it."

"I don't suppose he knows it. I have never spoken of it before. Miss
Druett told me aunt was fond of speculation, and had wasted a great
deal upon lottery tickets."

"She has made some very successful speculations, too," said Mr. Fabian,
rising. "Well, my dear, I have no more business with you this morning.
When your aunt is well enough, I must explain matters to her. Now, is
there anything I can do for you? Would you not like to put on mourning
for your old friend?"

"Yes, indeed I should, Mr. Fabian!" answered Calista, her eyes filling
with tears. "I have thought a good deal about it, but could not see my
way, for I have no black dresses, and no money."

"Mrs. Fabian suggested the subject to me, and bade me say that if
you would send her a pattern-dress, she would take the whole matter
off your hands, and see you properly provided. Mrs. Fabian is very
thoughtful and considerate," concluded the old gentleman, with a little
bow, as if his wife were present. "I hope and trust you will find her a
valuable friend."

"I have no doubt I shall, if she will be so kind as to befriend
me," said Calista, feeling very grateful to Mrs. Fabian for her
consideration in the present instance. "I will get you the dress, if
you will wait a moment."

Calista folded up her new sprigged muslin in a small, neat parcel, not
without a sigh to the memory of the last time she wore it.

And Mr. Fabian departed, leaving Calista much relieved. She was not
left dependent on the grudging bounty of Miss Priscilla, neither
would she lose the opportunity of completing her education with Miss
McPherson. She was sensible enough to consider that three thousand
dollars was not a fortune, and she did not at all relax in her
determination to qualify herself for a teacher; but it was pleasant to
know she had something of her own.

It was with a curious feeling that all must be a dream that she sought
out her mother's purse and put into it the five dollars Mr. Fabian had
given her in parting.

Then she kneeled down and asked earnestly for grace to serve her Master
in the new state of life to which he seemed pleased to call her. And
then, rested and comforted, she went into her aunt's room.



CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

MR. FABIAN CALLS AGAIN.

MRS. FABIAN was true to her word, and by her exertions, ably seconded
by those of Drusella Pine, a very handsome and proper suit of mourning
was sent home to Calista on Saturday night, accompanied by a kind
little note from Mrs. Fabian, and a present of a black feather fan.
Calista was pleased with the present and still more with the note, and
she would not have been a girl of sixteen if she had not felt a slight
movement of gratified vanity as she looked at herself in the glass and
saw how very neat and becoming was the fresh bombazine and crape, and
the black cottage bonnet with its plain white border inside.

"Well, you do look like a real lady, Miss Calista," said Chloe, who
had assisted at the trying on; "and it does me good to see you wearing
decent clothes, as a young lady ought. Did Mrs. Fabian send you any
everyday things?"

"Yes, a nice black calico; and she says she will have a black stuff
made for me. Isn't she kind?"

"Law, yes! The Fabians are real quality, and know what's what. None of
your new-come-up folks they ain't. I heard say something about your
going to boarding-school; is that so?"

"Yes; Miss Druett wished it, and Mr. Fabian thinks it best."

"Well, I am glad of it, though what this house will be like without
Miss Druett and you, I can't say. But this I will say, it is not the
place for you. Miss Priscilla is bewitched by that old Jael, and
there's no telling what will come of it. Besides, you ought to be with
some one who knows how young ladies ought to behave, and who will take
an interest in your education. It's my belief if it hadn't been for
Miss Druett, you wouldn't even have learned to read and write."

"I am of the same mind, Chloe. Looking back, I can see how she has
befriended me all my life. I don't think I ever thought half enough of
her when I had her."

"That's the way we all feel, honey," said Chloe. "It's just so with me.
I know I was aggravating lots of times when I needn't have been. Wasn't
it a blessed thing that she died such a happy death, and that Mr. Alger
could say, as he did, that she died a Christian?"

"Yes, indeed."

"But, honey, I expect you'll have a regular fuss with Miss Priscilla
about the will when she comes to know it. She said she meant to see
Mr. Fabian, and get the money, just as soon as she was able. I don't
think she has a notion of the way things are left, because she said to
me that she would put out the money to much better advantage than Miss
Druett. I didn't say a word, for I thought, least said soonest mended.
I suppose you'll put on your new clothes to-morrow."

"Yes, if I go to church."

"There's another thing you'll have a fuss about, I expect," said Chloe,
as she assisted Calista in folding and laying away her new dress and
mantle. "I mean your wearing mourning. Miss Priscy hates to see any one
in black. She says it is such a waste; but I think it is because she
don't like to be reminded of her latter end."

"Then if it annoys her, I won't wear it in the house while I stay here.
Shall I unpin the veil from the bonnet?"

"Oh yes, and lay it smooth in the same folds. A crape veil will last
a long time if one is careful of it. And do the same by your shawl.
Some ladies' things always look as if they had been kept under the bed,
because they don't take care of them when they take them off. Now what
would you like for your supper, honey?"

"Just what you have. I would as soon have bread and milk as anything,
only I should like some tea."

"I hope it ain't wicked," muttered Chloe, as she descended the stairs,
"but if Miss Priscy was obliged to stay in bed the rest of her life,
I'd willingly take all the trouble of waiting on her for the sake of
the comfort there would be down stairs."


It rained hard on Sunday morning, but cleared up at noon; and at three
o'clock Calista thought she might venture to go to her Sunday-school.
She asked Chloe's advice.

"Oh yes, go, honey; it will do you all the good in the world. I'll take
care of Miss Priscy, never fear."

Calista dressed herself in her new mourning and went out. As she was
passing her aunt's door, she heard a peremptory voice call,—

"Is that you, Calista?"

"Yes, ma'am. Do you want anything? Shall I send Chloe?"

"No. Come here, I want to speak to you."

Now Calista had worn her black print dress all the morning, and
Miss Priscilla had made no remark. Calista took this as a tacit
acquiescence, and was rejoicing that the matter had settled itself
so easily. But she was mistaken in her reckoning. The fact was, Miss
Priscilla had not noticed the dress at all.

"Where are you going?" was the first question. And then, with an
ominous flash of the eyes, "What is that you have on?"

"My new mourning, aunt. Mrs. Fabian got it for me and sent it home last
night."

"Oh, she did? She is very obliging, I am sure," said Miss Priscilla, in
her bitterest sarcastic tone. "Pray did she pay for them?"

"No, aunt," answered Calista, with an inward prayer for grace, for she
saw that a conflict was impending. "Mr. Fabian paid for them out of
Miss Druett's money that she left me."

"That she left you!" Miss Priscilla repeated slowly, as though she
could hardly believe her ears. "What do you mean?"

"Mr. Fabian will tell you all about it, aunt," said Calista, retreating
a little. "He is Miss Druett's executor, and has the management of all
her affairs. I would rather not talk about it to-day."

"Do you mean to say that Druey has gone and left the money she had from
England to 'you?'" asked Miss Priscilla, sitting up in bed.

"Please wait till to-morrow, aunt," said Calista, determined not to
have a dispute on Sunday. "Mr. Fabian will tell you all about it." And
she left the room, followed by a string of vituperation which she did
not stop to listen to.


She met her class and had a pleasant time with them. The little girls
were full of sympathy, every one was kind to her, and she came home
feeling refreshed and comforted.

Chloe met her at the door.

"Don't go near your aunt," said she. "She is in one of her tantrums.
I've set your supper out in the sitting-room, and when you've eaten
it, if you don't go to meeting again, you had better sit in the
front parlor. There's some nice books in there that used to be your
grandma's, and I'll bring you in a light by and by."

"I don't think I will go to meeting, Chloe. I feel rather tired with my
walk. It is strange I should mind such a thing when I have walked to
town all my life."

"You're worn out, honey; that is just what it is," said Chloe. "You
ain't made of cast iron more than any one else. Eat your supper, and
take care of your new frock. Milk spots black worse than anything."

Calista took the advice given her, and then retreated to the front
parlor. She had never examined the little cupboards by the chimney.
Indeed, they had usually been kept locked, but now they were open,
and Calista eagerly looked over their contents. There were a few very
early specimens of the Annuals—a species of literature which seems to
have wholly died out; but the books mostly consisted of sets of the
"Spectator" and "Rambler," and religious books of which there were
a good many and of high character—Thomas à Kempis, Taylor's "Holy
Living," "The Whole Duty of Man," Law's "Serious Call," and the like.
Calista took down the last, and was soon fascinated, as any person of
taste must be, by the exquisite style, the wit, and solid excellence of
the matter.

She read till it was too dark to see, and then sat watching the
fireflies, which spangled everything, and the moon, which just touched
the higher clouds with silver. She tried to keep her thoughts on other
things, but the questions would rise, "What was she to do? Was it
her duty to stay on where she was? Could she possibly live with Aunt
Priscilla?"

"But I am borrowing trouble," she said to herself at last. "My aunt
gave up all care of me to Miss Druett, and she said Mr. Fabian was my
guardian and would decide for me, so, of course, he will settle all
that. I wouldn't be him when he calls to-morrow. I don't think aunt
need grudge me my little fortune. Surely she has enough. I heard Mr.
Fabian and that other gentleman say that the estate had increased in
value tenfold. But I will not think of business to-night—so there!"

And drawing nearer to her the candle Chloe had brought, she applied
herself once more to the "Serious Call." She read on, more and more
interested, till a sudden rustle caused her to turn round. Some one
was at the window, that was certain; some one who disappeared in a
moment. She went to the window and looked out. There was nothing to be
seen, but as she drew together and barred the shutters, she heard a low
hollow laugh or chuckle, which she knew too well.

"So that horrid woman has come back," she said to herself. "Mr. Fabian
is right. It will never do for me to stay here."

She could not feel very comfortable alone in the great room with its
heavy, faded damask hanging, where her one candle made such grim
shadows of the old-fashioned furniture. She took her book and candle,
and, slipping off her shoes, she crept softly up to her own room and
fastened the door, which had no bolt inside, by putting one of her
trunks against it. She sat reading a long time, till all was quiet in
the house. Then she said her prayers, and going to bed, she fell asleep
like a baby.


The next morning, to her utter amazement, she went down stairs to find
her aunt dressed, and sitting waiting for her breakfast. Such a thing
had not happened for years.

"Why, Aunt Priscilla, how smart you are getting!" she exclaimed
pleasantly. "When have you been down to breakfast before?"

"Oh, I am not quite superannuated yet, though you and your Fabians
would like to make me so. Yes, you and your Fabians, with your plots
and plans," she added, shaking her head. "You will find out, Miss, you
poor-house child that I took out of charity that you might turn me out
of house and home. Yes, yes! I meant to make you rich at last, but
you'll see what you have gained by your plots and plans. You'll see!"

"Indeed, aunt, I have done nothing to injure you," said Calista,
gently. "I don't ask anything of you but kind treatment and a little
love. Come, aunt, let us be friends for the sake of her that is gone."

Calista's voice trembled, and she drew near to her aunt and bent down
as if to kiss her, but Miss Priscilla pushed her off.

"There, go away. If you must make a sentimental fuss, go and see about
breakfast; we shall not have it over by the time that old fool gets
here."

Breakfast, however, was over and out of the way before the person so
politely designated arrived.

Calista was not called to the conference till just at its close. As she
entered the room, she heard Miss Priscilla say, in the loftily polite
manner which she could assume if she chose:

"I am sorry to have been the cause of your forgetting yourself and
being so violent, Mr. Fabian. I had always supposed you to be a person
of quite a different stamp. I see now how wise my father was in
refusing to sanction your addresses."

"And I see what an idiotic young fool I was ever to have made them,"
muttered Mr. Fabian, evidently much discomfited. "Be that as it may,
madam," he continued, aloud, "I assure you that the will of your late
friend is perfectly legal in every respect, and if you dispute it, you
will lose your money."

"That remains to be seen, sir. Meantime, my niece remains in my
custody. I have brought her up and educated her, and I intend that she
shall stay with me till she is of age, and be governed by me in all
things."

Calista cast a glance of consternation at her friend.

"Do not be alarmed, my dear," said Mr. Fabian. "You shall remain with
this—this 'person' no longer than till I can obtain the proper legal
power to take possession of you."

Mr. Fabian pronounced the word "person" with a look and emphasis which
gave it all the effect of the most vituperative epithet. "Mr. Settson
is expected home to-day, and then we will arrange the whole matter. Do
not be afraid; no one shall hurt you."

"No harm is likely to come to her under this roof, whatever might
happen anywhere else," said Miss Priscilla. "I have allowed the young
person much more liberty than was for her good, to gratify the whims of
my late companion and housekeeper, Miss Druett—"

"Oh! So she was your housekeeper!" said Mr. Fabian, taking out his
tablets and making a note of the words. "You will please remember these
words, Calista. They may be important."

"Of my late companion and friend, as I supposed her," continued Miss
Priscilla, without noticing the interruption. "She has been going about
to Methodist meetings and other places unfit for any decent young
person. I shall permit this no longer; but as to any ill-treatment,
I hope my character and that of my family are a guarantee against
anything of that kind. I will not detain you any longer. Good-morning!"

Mr. Fabian bowed, and whispered to Calista to keep up good courage.

Miss Priscilla accompanied him to the door with the greatest politeness.

Calista, meantime, fled to her own room and fastened the door as well
as she could. She had hardly done so when she heard it locked on the
outside. Then she heard her aunt's voice ordering David to get up the
chaise and be ready to drive her to Graywich.

"I shall not be at home till to-morrow," she said to Chloe, in
unusually gracious accents; "so, if you choose, Chloe, you can go to
town and stay with your sister. Indeed, I prefer that you should do so.
I shall feel safer if the house is locked up."

"But where is Miss Calista? She can't stay here alone," objected Chloe.
"And what about the cows?"

"Miss Calista has gone to town with Mr. Fabian. Did you not see her in
the carriage? As to the cows, Davis will see to them."

"Oh!" said Chloe. "Then I guess I'll go over to Sally's. Jubalina is
out, helping at Mrs. Whitecar's. And I'll take my new frock along and
get Drusella to cut it for me. Hadn't I better take the key to the
kitchen door, so's I can come and have things ready for you?"

"No, I prefer to carry all the keys myself. Go and get ready, for I am
in a hurry."

No more was said, and Calista began to reflect on her position with
some consternation. She did not at all relish the idea of being left
locked up in the great empty house without food all night, and besides
she had no notion of the lengths to which her aunt might go in her
madness, for as such Calista regarded her conduct. She might, however,
only mean to break her niece's spirit by hunger and solitude, and thus
gain her ends.

"But she will find herself mistaken," thought Calista, proudly; "she
does not know with whom she has to do."

The two servants slept in a room opening from the outer kitchen, and
Miss Priscilla watched Chloe so carefully as to prevent her going up
stairs at all.

Calista in her prison heard all the doors locked one after another,
and the chaise roll away. She tried the door, but it was fast; her
room being in the highest part of the house, she could not think for
a moment of throwing herself out of the window. She tried the door
with all her strength, but it would not yield to her efforts. She was
sitting down to rest and compose her thoughts, when she heard a welcome
voice under the window call softly—

"Honey, are you there?"

Calista sprang to the window and put her head out.

"Oh, Chloe, is it you? I thought every one had left me."

"Didn't I tell you so?" said Chloe, addressing nobody in particular. "I
didn't believe you went away in that carriage. Have you got a string
you can let down?"

Calista found a roll of tape in her work-box, and let it down.

Chloe fastened a basket to it.

"There's some dinner for you," said she. "I mistrusted all the time
you were here, and so Chloe put you up a nice basket. Now listen to
me. You will have to stay where you are till dusk. Nothing will hurt
you, and do you pack up all your trunks, and put all your best things
in one. Keep up a good heart, honey, and if you hear strange noises
and scratching round about dusk, don't you be scared. Cash has got a
plan for you in his head. There, good-bye; eat your dinner, keep a good
heart, and we'll show Miss Priscy that there is more than one way to
the woods, and out of them too."

Calista felt the wisdom of this advice. She made a hearty dinner, and
then began to pack up her trunks, putting together in one all her most
valuable articles and those she was most likely to need, as Chloe had
advised. She had in her possession the new travelling bag she had
bought for Miss Druett, and in that she bestowed her dressing things
and other small matters. This being finished, she took a book and read
for a long time.


It was growing dusk, when, as Chloe had foreboded, she began to hear
a distant stir and rustling, and low, cautious voices. She listened
intently: something was certainly stirring in the large disused closet,
wherein were stowed the old clothes that her aunt had destined for
carpet-rags. She opened the door, and as she did so, another door,
which she had never suspected, opened in the wooden partition opposite,
and the dark, friendly faces of Cassius and Chloe appeared in the
opening.

"Here she is, all safe and sound," said Cassius. "Now we must hurry,
for I mistrust the old lady may get back to-night, after all. Which
trunk do you need most, Missy? For we can't take but one."

Calista indicated the one she wished to take.

"All right," said Chloe. "Now, help me, Cash, and we'll put the others
where Miss Priscy won't find them in a month of Sundays."

Calista waited with what patience she could till the trunks were
bestowed somewhere in the dark void on which the closet opened.

"That's all right; now for this one. Come along, Missy, and mind your
steps. The garret is pretty dark. Shut your eyes a minute, and you'll
see better."

Calista followed, wondering more and more. Chloe shut both closet-doors
behind them. They passed through the garret and down a short stairway
which seemed to wind round the chimney, then through another closet
similar to the one up stairs, and Calista found herself in a large
bed-room on the second floor, which she recognized as her father's old
room.

"All right so far, but I'm glad that trunk wasn't any bigger," said
Cassius; "now it's all plain sailing. Shut all the doors behind us,
Chloe, and leave everything straight."

They descended to the first floor. Cassius opened a side-door, and it
was with a feeling of exultation that Calista found herself in the open
air.

"Is it possible she left a door unfastened?" said Calista.

"Not she," returned Cassius. "Young master gave me a key to this door
years ago, and I kept it for a kind of keepsake. But let's get on the
road, and I'll tell you all about it."

"Won't you take the river road?" asked Chloe. "It's more lonesomer."

"Either road is lonesome enough at this time," answered Cassias; "and I
want to get Missy into safe keeping. Have you got anything to put round
you, Missy? It is sort of chilly."

"Yes, I took down this old cloak, which was hanging in the closet,"
said Calista.

"That is my master's old military cloak, which he wore in war times,"
said Cassius. "He had it on when he was took for death. Some time,
Missy, if you don't want it, I should like to have that cloak; but I
don't want it in my house just now."

They were soon stowed in the Jersey wagon, which was tied before the
gate, and the stout little horse was going over the road at a fine
pace, as if he did not mind his load in the least.

"And now, do tell me how you got in?" said Calista. "And what is the
story of that closet?"

"Oh, it is all plain enough," answered Cassius. "You see Chloe
mistrusted all the time that you didn't go away with Mr. Fabian,
because she did not see you go out, and she told me so. So Sally says,—

"'You'd better go and make sure, and take the poor thing something to
eat.' For Sally, she can't bear to think of any one's going hungry.

"Says I, 'If she is there, I reckon we can get her out easy enough.'

"You see young master and me, we used to go out night-fishing, and he
had a key to the little side-door, and he and I, we built that little
staircase round the chimney and through the closets, so I could come
down to his room any time. Your grandpa knew it, and thought it was
only a frolic. Whether Miss Priscy did or not I don't know. She was
away at the time we built it, I remember. When young Master Richard
went away, he gave me that key to the side-door, and told me to keep it
till he came back. So as nobody ever used the door, I took it away with
me when I went, for a kind of keepsake. But it took a sight of oil to
make it turn smooth, I can tell you. I little thought what good it was
going to do. But I kind of wish you hadn't taken the coat."

"I don't think she'll miss it," said Calista. "She gave it to me with a
parcel of other old clothes to cut into carpet-rags, a long while ago,
and she has never asked for the things since. Anyhow, I can send it
back to her if she wants it."

"Yes, we'll fix that easy enough," said Chloe. "Here we come."

"I guess we'd better drive right to Mr. Fabian's, hadn't we?" asked
Cassius.

"Oh, yes, yes, Cassius. How shall I ever pay you?"

"Bless you, Missy, don't think about that. Who's got a right to help
you if I haven't, I should like to know?"

The sound of wheels on the carriage-drive brought Mr. Fabian to the
door of his handsome, stately old house, and great was his amazement
when Cassius stopped his horse, and helped out first Calista and then
Chloe.

"Calista, is this you? What does it mean?"

"Oh, Mr. Fabian, won't you please take me in, and take care of me?"
said Calista, her voice quivering with the excitement she had been
repressing all day.

"Of course I will, and very glad I am to see you," said the old
gentleman, grasping the hand held out. "Mrs. Fabian, will you come
here?"

Mrs. Fabian appeared, stately and beautiful, in her black satin and
lace cap,—for old ladies were old ladies in those days.

"Now, what is the story?" said Mr. Fabian.

Cassius told it in a few words.

"What an abominable shame!" said Mrs. Fabian. "The child might have
lost her senses, poor dear. I never heard of anything more cruel."

The kind words, and the epithet which she had so often heard from her
lost friend, finished the break down which had been for some time
impending, and Calista burst into a fit of hysterical crying.

"There, there, she is quite overdone," said Mrs. Fabian, folding
Calista in her motherly arms. "We will get her to bed, and Chloe and
Cassius shall have their supper and feed the horse. Perhaps, Chloe, as
your mistress is not coming back to-night, you had better stay. There
is plenty of room for you."

Chloe had calculated on this invitation, and accepted it without
scruple.

Cassius declined, with many low bows. He must get home and see to his
cows, and so on.

Mr. Fabian followed him to the door and said something, of which only
the conclusion was audible: "Keep your own counsel, and if you get into
trouble, I'll stand by you."

He pressed something into Cassius's hand, which glittered yellow in the
lamplight.

Cassius bowed, and disappeared in the darkness, and his horse was heard
trotting away.

Meantime, Calista had been conveyed up stairs to the most beautiful
bed-room she had ever seen, where she was speedily undressed and put to
bed. Presently appeared Chloe with an inviting tray, and when it was
plain that Calista was too tired to eat, she was tucked up, exhorted to
sleep as late as she pleased in the morning, and finally left to her
repose.



CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

MISS PRISCILLA.

IT was just as well that Cassius did not take the river road, for had
he done so, he would have met Miss Priscilla at his own gate.

Miss Priscilla had allowed herself to act in a passion, and, she had
not gone three miles from home before her mind misgave her. She had
almost a mind to make a pretence of having left something and turn
back. But she was not quite cool yet, and she did very much want to
see Mr. Anderson, the lawyer in Graywich, about "that infamous will of
Druey's"—so she called it in her own mind.


Mr. Anderson gave her no particular comfort. He was an honest man, and,
moreover, he had once had to collect a bill of Miss Priscilla, and he
had not forgotten (though she had) the way he had been treated on that
occasion. He strongly advised Miss Priscilla not to go to law about the
matter.

"These few thousand dollars are nothing to you," he said. "If you go to
law, your servants and your niece will be very sharply examined, and
things may come to light which may be very unpleasant."

Miss Priscilla winced.

"There is another consideration," pursued the lawyer, as gently and
politely as if Miss Priscilla was a mouse and he the cat which was
playing with her. "I suppose there is no doubt that your father,
General Stanfield, made a second will, though it was never found. But
after what has passed, Settson and Fabian will leave no stone unturned
to discover it, and they are likely enough to succeed. Under such
circumstances, would it not be better to conciliate the regard of the
young lady,—who, from all I hear from my nieces, her schoolmates, is a
very amiable, engaging young person,—and make a friend of her?"

"I tell you there was no second will—nothing of the sort," said Miss
Priscilla, in great agitation. "The whole property is mine—house and
all; and that money is rightfully mine."

"There you are mistaken, as I think," said Mr. Anderson, politely.

"Then you won't undertake the case?" said Miss Priscilla, in deep
disappointment.

"Under the circumstances, I must be excused," said Mr. Anderson; "and
my parting advice to you is to let matters rest where they are, and
to endeavor to make a friend of the young lady. The time is short,
my dear madam—the time is short; and both you and myself are rapidly
approaching that station where no earthly riches are of any avail. I
should be happy to invite you to dinner, but my wife and daughter are
away, and I am taking my own meals at a neighbor's house. Good-morning!"

And Miss Priscilla found herself bowed out of the office with great
politeness. She had counted on keeping herself, her horse, and her
servant at Mr. Anderson's expense; but now she must go to the tavern,
for the horse, at least, must have his dinner.

There was now no object in her remaining all night, and the more she
thought of it, the more vexed she was with herself for the course she
had taken. How should she manage when she came home? The servants would
be certain to find out that Calista had been shut up in the empty house
all day, and, what was worse, they would be sure to tell of it, for
they were both on Calista's side.

To do Miss Priscilla justice, she was not without better feelings.
She remembered that Calista had really seemed glad to see her down
stairs, and she thought, too, how she had rejected the child's offer of
friendship.

"The child!"

Yes, that was what Druey had always called her—Druey, who had stood by
her through evil report and unkindness, and to whom she had solemnly
given over the care of Calista. Suppose that when she got home she
should find Calista dead, or scared into insanity! Miss Priscilla was
as angry at herself as she had been at Calista. She thought matters
over, and decided, with a great pang, that she would give up the
contest, let the will be proved, and say no more about it. She had
counted on Miss Druett's ready money to carry on her schemes with Jael
and her husband, but then she could sell out some bank-stock.

Then another cold misgiving crossed her mind. She had already let
these people have two or three hundred dollars. Suppose they should
be robbing and cheating her all the time! But she could not and would
not believe that. No, the treasure was there, and she would have it!
She would coax Calista to join with her: Calista was always lucky in
finding things! Yes, that would be the best plan.

That Calista should refuse to be governed or coaxed, that she should
feel any lasting resentment for the way she had been treated, never
entered Miss Priscilla's head.

Full of these thoughts, she stopped at Cassius's gate and called
for Chloe. Instead of Chloe, came out old Sally. Was ever anything
so unlucky! Cassius had been obliged to drive into town, and Chloe
had gone with him and expected to spend the night with Mrs. Fabian's
Miranda. Cassius would most likely stay to meeting, seeing he was
there, and so would not come home till late.

This was worse and worse. Then Chloe would find out that Calista had
not gone away with Mr. Fabian. And what was she to do for supper?
David declared he could not and would not drive Jeff another step, and
the farm horses were away off down in the pasture. But then there was
Calista! No doubt the poor child was hungry enough by this time, and
for once she might get just what she liked for supper.


It was not without an uncomfortable feeling that Miss Priscy ascended
the stairs to the attic story, and, unlocking the door, called—

"Calista!"

Then, as no answer came, "Calista, child, take the things away from the
door and let me come in; I want to speak to you! Don't be afraid. I am
not angry, though you have been a naughty girl. Come, let me in!"

Still no answer. Exerting her strength, Miss Priscilla pushed away
the heavy chair which Calista had left standing against the door, and
entered.

The room was empty. Everything was in its usual state, except that
Calista's trunks were gone.

Much alarmed, she searched the house over, but every door was locked
and every window fastened. Calista was nowhere to be seen.


Leaving her to her own reflections, we will follow the fortunes of our
heroine.

Calista's sleep was broken and restless till near morning, but then she
fell asleep and did not wake till near ten o'clock.

When she did wake, she lay for some time in a half-dreamy state,
enjoying the softness of her bed and the luxurious prettiness of
her room, so different from the one she had so long inhabited. She
found a real pleasure in the pretty carpet, the easy chair with its
bright chintz, the Indian paper on the walls covered with processions
of camels and elephants, with wonderful birds and beasts, and men
still more wonderful. Presently her eyes fell upon the old army cloak
carelessly thrown over a chair, and like a flash came to her mind the
words of Cassius—

"He had it on when he was struck with death!"

She sprang out of bed, seized the coat, and felt in all the pockets.
There was nothing in any of them, but as she turned them out, she found
in the inside breast pocket a long rip. She put in her hand and pulled
out a folded paper carefully wrapped round with red tape, but not
sealed.

She gave one glance at it, and another out of the window. Mr. Settson's
house was open, and so was the office. Clearly the family were at home.

She waited no longer than to dress herself, and then, without seeing
or thinking of any one, she put on her hat, and, with the paper in her
hand, ran across to the office. There was no one in the outer room. She
knocked at the door of the inner office, and then, without waiting for
a reply, she opened it and went in.

There sat Mr. Settson and Mr. Fabian, with an elderly man whom she had
never seen before.

"Calista!" exclaimed both the gentlemen in surprise.

And Mr. Fabian's voice had a shade of displeasure as he added,—

"My dear, what has brought you here?"

"This!" answered Calista, holding up her prize. "Mr. Settson, will you
please tell me what I have found?"

Mr. Settson set down his snuff-box, and glancing at the outside of the
document, he opened it with eager haste. He looked it through, glanced
at the end, and then struck his hand on the table with a force which
made the ink jump out of the inkstand and the snuff out of the box, and
caused the office cat to utter a remonstrating mew.

"The very thing!" said he. "We have it at last. Fabian, Williams, look
here!"

They both rose and looked over his shoulder with eager curiosity.

"That is it, Mr. Settson," said the elderly man, whom Mr. Settson
called Williams; "that is the signature I witnessed, and the other
signature is that of young Mr. John Blair, at that time studying in
our office. I have heard he was living somewhere west—in Detroit, I
believe. That is Mr. Durant's handwriting. The old gentleman gave him
instructions how to draw the will, and he came in next day and signed
it. I heard it read over to him myself."

"But what in the world possessed him to go to a lawyer who was an
entire stranger, and in an obscure place like that?"

"I think it was because he was not very well. I remember he said
something about his heart troubling him."

[Illustration: _Old Stanfield House._
 "This!" answered Calista, holding up her prize.]

"Where did you find the will, Calista?" asked Mr. Settson.

Calista described the way it had come into her possession.

"Exactly. I see it all. He had put it in his pocket to bring to me as
he said, when he was taken with this fit. The will slipped through the
slit, and has staid there ever since. Well, my dear, you have made a
good morning's work. I must examine the document further, but from
what I see, I think we shall unseat Miss Priscilla from her high horse
without much trouble. Run in and see Mary, and I will tell you the
contents of the will when I know them myself."

"Perhaps I had better go back," said Calista, blushing. "I came out
without seeing any one, and Mrs. Fabian will think it very strange."

"Mrs. Fabian will understand that you did quite right when I explain
matters to her," said Mr. Fabian; "I will return with you, and come
back directly. Have you had your breakfast?"

"No, sir."

"Dear, dear! Mrs. Fabian will be quite shocked, and we shall have you
ill."

But Mrs. Fabian was not shocked, nor was Calista ill. She ate her
breakfast with a good appetite, and then helped her hostess to rub the
skins off Siberian crab-apples, and then punch out the cores with a tin
tube, for, like most ladies of the time, Mrs. Fabian took pride and
pleasure in preparing quantities of sweetmeats.

Oh, what a delight there was in the feeling of perfect quiet and
safety! How she enjoyed the shade of the back veranda, where they
sat at work, the sight and smell of the garden, the pretty, dainty
household work, the sight of Mrs. Fabian's neat French chintz and apron
of India grass-cloth, the soft, cultivated voice in which she told
Calista anecdotes of her travels abroad, interspersed with mild moral
reflections. There were people who considered Mrs. Fabian a thought
tedious, but Calista could have listened forever.


After dinner Mr. Settson came over, and Calista was informed of the
provisions of her grandfather's will.

"The Philadelphia property, together with fifteen thousand dollars in
money, is left unconditionally to your aunt Priscilla. The Stanfield
place, with all the farms, &c., the Cohansey property, and twenty
thousand dollars, are left, first to your father, after him to your
mother for her life, or so long as she should remain unmarried,
and after her to the child or children of Richard Stanfield, share
and share alike; the guardianship of said children being given to
Mr. Fabian and myself as executors of the will. There are some
legacies,—one of a hundred dollars to old Cassius, and as much to the
church here, in memory of his last wife."

"Then I get more than Aunt Priscilla!" said Calista. "That seems hardly
fair."

"No, you get a good deal less. The Philadelphia property is worth much
more than the Stanfield estate, properly so called. Have you any of
your mother's papers?"

"Yes, sir; I brought them all with me, for I thought they might be
needed."

"Very discreet in you. Have you any objection to my looking them over?"

"Not at all, sir. I will bring them down."

Calista left the room and soon returned with two or three orderly
bundles of papers and her mother's Bible.

"This book has the date of my mother's marriage and of my birth
set down in it," said she. "I don't know whether they are of any
consequence at all—"

"Of all the consequence in the world," said Mr. Settson, untying the
bundles and carefully looking them over. "Certificate of marriage—very
good; bills, &c.—of no great account. Is there any one of these letters
by which you can fix the date of your father's death?"

"Yes, sir—a letter from the captain of his company, telling all about
it. This is it."

"Oh, so I see. Well, my dear, all things are uncertain in this world,
but so far as I can see now, there is no more doubt about your coming
in possession of the Stanfield place at twenty-one than there is that
the sun will rise to-morrow."

"It will be a great responsibility for a girl like me," said Calista.

"Very true; but we will hope you may have grace to use your fortune
wisely and rightly. Now as to another thing—I mean your place of
residence. I understand Miss Druett wished you to board at Miss
McPherson's; but I saw the good lady in New York, and she told me that
every room and bed in her house were engaged. Mrs. Fabian is anxious to
keep you with her, as she has no daughters living to bear her company.
Should you like that?"

"Yes, sir, very much."

"I should have liked to have you with us," continued Mr. Settson, "but
I find myself obliged to give a home to an aged aunt of my late wife's;
and to say truth, I think Mrs. Fabian, with her knowledge of the world
and society, a little better fitted to be the guide of such a—you
won't be offended if I say such a decided young lady as Miss Calista
Stanfield?—than my Alice."

"Oh no, sir," said Calista, smiling and blushing. "And I am sure I am
quite contented here. I think Mrs. Fabian is lovely. Then you don't
think I shall have to go back to my aunt?" she added, rather anxiously.

"No, indeed! Most decidedly not!" answered Mr. Settson, with emphasis.
"You must keep out of her way, and not go near the place at all."

"But if it is her duty, papa," interposed Mary, who had been sitting
quite silently with her knitting. "Don't you think she ought to go if
there is any chance of doing Miss Priscilla any good? Who knows how she
might be the means of influencing her?"

"I would go if it was thought right," said Calista; "but, oh, I should
dread it. I want to do my duty, I am sure," she added, anxiously.

Mr. Settson took a pinch of snuff, and regarded his daughter with the
slightly sarcastic smile which she particularly dreaded.

"It is the duty of such little girls as Calista and Mary to do as
they are bid by those who have the authority over them," said he. "It
is especially the duty of Calista, because there may be considerable
danger in her acting otherwise. So, if you please, we will consider
that matter settled. Is there anything else you would like to ask me
about?"

"No, sir; only—please don't be hard on Aunt Priscilla. I am sure she
is not quite in her right mind, and I 'am' dreadfully afraid of her,
especially since what she did yesterday; but I could not injure her for
the world."

"Don't be alarmed, my dear; Miss Priscilla shall have every chance.
Leave all that to me. I must take these papers away with me, but I will
take great care of them. Good-bye. I suppose you and Mary have a great
many hours of gossip to make up."

And Mr. Settson departed, leaving the girls to themselves.

Calista gave a little skip as she closed the door after him.

"Oh, how glad I am!" said she. "I feel like a bird let out of a cage."

"Well, I must say I rather wonder at you, Calista," said Mary, in a
somewhat disapproving voice. "I should think you would be sorry for
your poor aunt,—

   "'Deserted, at her utmost need
     By those her former bounty fed.'"

For Mary had been reading poetry, and liked to quote it.

Calista's face flushed. "I wonder who did the deserting," said she.
"Miss Priscilla, who went away to stay all night and left me locked up
alone without food or light, or myself, who got out and came away? As
to her bounty, the less said the better."

"But if you could do her good, I think you ought to sacrifice yourself
and not choose a life of luxury with a worldly, fashionable woman like
Mrs. Fabian. I must say I am disappointed in you."

"And I am disappointed in you," said Calista, with some spirit. "I
thought you had more sense. Don't you see that I must obey your father
and Mr. Fabian, whom Providence has so plainly placed over me? As to
calling Mrs. Fabian worldly, I don't know what you mean by that. She
has been as kind as a mother to me, and I don't think it is just the
thing to speak of her in that way in her own house. But come, don't
let's quarrel. I want to hear all about your travels. Where did you go?
And where did your father pick up this Mr. Williams?"

"He found him quite by accident in a little town not far from New York,
where we stopped over night," answered Mary, making a desperate grasp
after her good humor, and partly recovering it. "We were in the stage
together, and we got talking. He asked where we were from, and when
papa told him, he said he once met a gentleman from our place under
rather peculiar circumstances—General Stanfield. Of course that set
papa asking questions, and he soon found out the whole story. So your
dreams are fulfilled, Calista, and you will be able to do what you
please with the old mansion."

"I don't seem to think or care much about that now," said Calista. "Of
course, I am glad to have something decent to wear, and to finish my
education; but I had rather set my heart on being a teacher. However,
there is no telling what may happen yet. 'There's many a slip,' you
know."



CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

MISS PRISCILLA MAKES CHANGES.

THE proverb which Calista had quoted did not seem likely to be
fulfilled in her case. The business went on smoothly.

Calista wisely resolved to ask no questions, and to think as little as
possible about the matter. She worked very hard at her lessons, did
her best to please Mrs. Fabian, accepting in the best spirit all that
lady's hints about manners, dress, and so forth, and fell into all the
ways of a daughter of the house. She was happier than she had supposed
possible, and would have been quite happy but for her anxiety about her
aunt. Mrs. Fabian said she should never be able to part with Calista,
and began to calculate the time of her nephew's return from Europe.

Miss Priscilla had waited impatiently for Chloe's return. And the
moment she entered the house, she was saluted with the question,—

"Chloe, where's Miss Calista?"

"Why, she's at Mrs. Fabian's, of course, a-having of a good time,"
answered Chloe, assuming that mask of absolute non-comprehension which
only a negro or an Indian can assume to perfection. "The last I saw of
her she was a-setting on the back stoop helping Mrs. Fabian peel and
core crab-apples. Mrs. Fabian, she has a little tin thing that she had
made a purpose, but I always takes a quill," concluded Chloe, with the
air of one communicating valuable information. "I think the tin kind of
blacks 'em, don't you?"

"Nonsense! What do I care about your crab-apples?" said Miss Priscilla,
impatiently. "When is she coming home?"

"Not for a good long while, I should think," answered Chloe, with an
innocent air of surprise. "She took her trunk, didn't she? I thought I
saw it standing in her bed-room."

Miss Priscilla was not pleased. She said no more at the time, but the
next day she ordered the chaise to drive to town.

"Put Miss Calista's room in nice order," said she to Chloe. "You can
give her the wash-basin and pitcher out of the front bed-room, and some
white towels out of the press. I presume she will come back with me. A
day or two's visit is all very well, but I don't want her staying on to
be spoiled by that foolish woman."

"Now, I call Mrs. Fabian a real nice lady," said Chloe. "She hardly
ever speaks a harsh word, and knows how to keep house as well as any
one I ever saw."

"Much you know about housekeeping! Tell David to have the chaise ready,
and get out my brown silk and my India shawl."

In the brown silk and the India shawl did Miss Priscilla alight at Mr.
Fabian's, and ask for Miss Stanfield.

"Oh, Mrs. Fabian, please don't leave me alone with her," said Calista.
"I don't know what she may do."

"Don't be alarmed, my dear, nothing shall hurt you," said gentle Mrs.
Fabian. "Miss Stanfield has not asked for me, but I shall remain in the
next room so as to be within call."

Miss Priscilla greeted her niece with unusual cordiality, and Calista
was glad to respond. They talked about a variety of things for a few
minutes, and then Miss Priscilla said, in a matter-of-fact way,—

"I think you had better go home with me to-day, Calista. David will not
be in till Saturday, and you don't want to make your visit too long."

Calista summoned all her power, and inwardly asked for help from the
Source of all strength.

"I am not going back again at present, aunt," said she, gently. "You
know Miss Druett—"

"I know Miss Druett made a very silly will, which I could break up in a
day if I chose, but I shall not try," interrupted Miss Priscilla. "You
are quite welcome to her little savings. But your place is with me, and
I must insist on your coming home at once."

"I cannot do it, aunt," answered Calista, firmly but kindly. "You have
no right to expect it after the way you have treated me. Mr. Fabian and
Mr. Settson both wish me to live here."

"Pray, what has Mr. Settson to do with it?"

"He will tell you if you ask him. Please do, aunt. There is something
new turned up that you ought to know about."

"What do you mean?" said Miss Priscilla, turning pale.

"I would rather not tell you, aunt. Please ask Mr. Settson. It is
something about a will. And, aunt, I took grandfather's old cloak to
put round me; will you take it back with you?"

"Cloak! What cloak?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"The old blue cloak with red facings. I took it to put over me because
the evening was so cold. The one you gave me to cut into carpet-rags."

"I believe it was the carpet-rags scared you away," said Miss
Priscilla, trying to make a joke of the matter; "we won't say any more
about them, and you shall spin or do what you please. And only just
let me have that money, and you will see what will come of it," she
whispered. "Jael is quite sure we shall find the treasure the next full
moon."

"Jael! Oh, Aunt Priscilla, don't have anything to do with those
wretches. Pray, don't."

"Much you know about it! Just see what she brought me only last week."
And Miss Priscilla exhibited a large gold coin.

Calista looked at it.

"Why, aunt, how can you be humbugged so!" said she, laughing. "This
is one of the very pieces I found in grandfather's desk. Don't you
remember, they were all marked? See here," and Calista pointed out the
small deep cross cut on the margin of the guinea.

Miss Priscilla snatched it back.

"Nonsense, child! As if two guineas could not be marked. Come, get your
things on."

"Aunt Priscilla, you must excuse me," said Calista, decidedly. "I am
not going home with you. I wish I could, but you yourself have made it
impossible. What did you think would ever become of me if I had not
found a way of escaping, when you shut me up in the old house to stay
without light or food all night?"

"I didn't stay away all night," said Miss Priscilla.

"But you meant to, aunt, or else why did you send Chloe into town to
stay with her sister?"

"I should like to know how you got out, that's all!" said Miss
Priscilla.

"A way was made for me. No, aunt, I cannot go back at present, if
for no other reason than that you allow that woman to come about the
place, and have dealings with her. Oh, aunt, don't!" exclaimed Calista.
"Please don't! I am sure nothing but harm can come of it. Even if you
found the money—if it is not all a cheat and delusion, as I believe it
is—what good would it do you? You must soon leave it, even if it does
not leave you. Just think how short this life is, and how long eternity
is; do think of your immortal soul!"

"Nonsense! I am not to be scared by Methodistical cant," said Miss
Priscilla, though she trembled visibly. "But if you are absolutely
determined to put yourself into the hands of these people, who will
turn you out helpless on the world just as soon as they have stripped
you of everything, do so. I wash my hands of you. And when you are
stripped and turned out, or kept to clean floors and black shoes for
that proud fool of a woman, don't come back to me. I wash my hands
of you. It was a bad day for me when I first took you out of the
poor-house. Don't come back to me. I don't like snakes!"

A part of this amiable speech was intended for the ears of Mrs. Fabian,
whose presence in the next room Miss Priscilla suspected, though she
did not see her. But Mrs. Fabian, calmly superior, worked on at her
lace collar, and smiled. She knew the strength that lay in silence.

"Shall I get you the cloak, aunt?"

"Yes; I don't choose that my dead father's clothes should be in such
hands. And do not call me 'aunt,' if you please. I acknowledge no
relationship to you any more."

Miss Priscilla departed, and crossed the road to Mr. Settson's
office, from which she was seen to issue after a somewhat lengthened
conference, followed by Mr. Settson with a large tin box, which he
placed carefully in the chaise. Rejecting the gentleman's assistance,
Miss Priscilla unfastened Jeff, the pony, and drove out of Cohansey
town, never to enter its streets again.


Calista retired to her room and, girl-like, indulged in a hearty fit of
crying. She could not return with Aunt Priscilla, and yet the thought
of her aunt living alone, without even the solace of her evening
cribbage and backgammon, was dreadful to her. But there was no use
crying about it to annoy Mrs. Fabian, and nothing she could do about
it—and then she remembered she could pray about it. She could not
influence or comfort or protect Aunt Priscilla, but there was One who
could do all these things, and to that One Calista betook herself with
simple and child-like faith.


The next day but one, as Calista set out for school, she saw Chloe and
David talking to Mr. Settson at his office gate. He beckoned her across
the street.

"Here is a new state of things," said he. "Chloe tells me that your
aunt has turned her and David away, almost at a moment's warning. Worse
than that, she has taken that woman Jael and her husband into the house
to live."

"Oh, Mr. Settson, can nothing be done?" exclaimed Calista, much
distressed. "Think of her alone with those dreadful creatures! She will
be ill-treated, if not robbed and murdered. Can nothing be done to save
her from them? Surely, she must be crazy!"

"I must turn the matter over and see what can be done," said Mr.
Settson; "but I don't know where to get hold of the case. Miss
Stanfield has an undoubted right to take whom she pleases into her own
house, and, so long as she displays such acuteness in money matters, we
can hardly call her insane. But do not be distressed, my dear; we will
try to keep watch of their doings. At any rate, it is not your fault."

"How did she manage it?" asked Calista of Chloe.

"Well, she came home in a great tantrum, ready to turn the house out
of window; then she calls me in and wants to know how you got out. And
says I,—

"'Why, Miss Priscy, you told me yourself she went away in the carriage
with Mr. Fabian.'

"Then she wanted to know if any of your things was left behind in the
house, and I said, not that I knew of. For, you see, just as soon as
she was gone, David and me, we moved your trunks to a safe place,
thinking to send them to you. Then she didn't say any more, only went
up and rummaged over your room. That night old Jael came and stayed all
the evening, and the next morning came again. And then Miss Priscy told
David and me we could go—she didn't want any more of us, and paid us
up. And we bundled up our things and borrowed Cash's old wagon and came
away. And we's got your things along with ours, and I suppose we've got
to look-out for some place to be in and something to do."

"I wouldn't have cared," said David, who was a man of few words, "only
for the dumb beasts—Jeff and the farm horses, and the cows." And David
turned away and wiped a suspicious drop from his eyelids.

"Miss McPherson wants a cook and a coachman, I know," said Calista;
"how would that suit you?"

"First-rate," said Chloe, speaking for both, as usual; "wouldn't it,
old man?"

"Suit me," said David. "I ain't afraid to groom horses, nor drive
horses, with any man in Cumberland County. But I don't know as you
could cook good enough for the young ladies."

"Oh, you go 'long! He will have his joke, you see, David will," said
Chloe, apologizing for her partner's light-mindedness. "Well, maybe you
might speak to the lady, Miss Calista. We'll leave your trunks to Mrs.
Fabian's, and then I guess we'll go to Jubalina's."

"That is just what I have been expecting," said Calista, as she walked
along to school with Mary. "If such things were, I should think Jael
had bewitched her, as Chloe says. To think of her taking those people
into the house to live with her!"

"Perhaps if you had staid she would not have done it," said Mary, who
had been planning for Calista a grand self-sacrifice, and did not like
to have her romance destroyed.

"I don't think it would have made any difference," said Calista.
"One thing she wanted me for was that she might use me in her
treasure-seeking scheme. And do you know she showed me a guinea which
Jael professed to have found, and it was one of the very pieces which
I found when I looked over grandfather's desk. I knew it, because they
were all marked."

"How could she come by it?"

"I suppose aunt paid it to them—she has given them ever so much money
already—and Jael gave it back, trusting to aunt's blindness not to
recognize it. Oh dear! I wish this will business was finished; then we
could soon clear out the poor old house."

"I should hardly think you would wish to turn your poor aunt out of the
house where she has lived so long, even if you don't want to live with
her," said Mary, reproachfully.

Calista faced round upon her rather sharply.

"Who said I did? Or why should you suppose that one invariably means
to do the very worst thing possible under the circumstances? Would you
like to have any one do so by you? You said only yesterday that it was
a great cross to have your mother's aunt come into the family and take
up the best room, though she seems to be a very nice, kind old lady."

"She smokes," said Mary.

"Well, do you think it would be very much better if, instead of
smoking, she addressed some insulting or sarcastic remark to you, or
now and then threw a book at you for variety?"

"But I have taken up my cross," said Mary, somewhat taken aback.

"Would you if you could help it?" asked Calista. "Wouldn't you be glad
this minute if the old lady were sent somewhere else?"

Mary did not answer.

"That is not my idea of taking up the cross," Calista continued. "And
any way, Mary, it is my duty to obey those whom Providence has set over
me, as your father says. I won't deny that I enjoy the change. It is
something not to go to bed hungry, and to have a comfortable bed to
sleep in."

"Surely you did not go hungry?"

"Indeed I did, half the time; and I had not bed-clothes enough for
decent neatness, not to say warmth. I wonder how that would suit you,
who must have at least three or four clean towels every week. Only for
Miss Druett, I should have had nothing but woollen sheets all winter.
More than that, I never had a cent of pocket-money for any use till
Miss Druett took charge of me. But I don't mean that my present life
shall make me self-indulgent. I have been trying to lay down some rules
for myself, like Mrs. Fletcher. Oh, Mary, I wish you would read that
book!"

"I should like to see it," said Mary, beginning to feel a little
ashamed.

"I will lend it to you. Then no one could live with Mrs. Fabian without
being the better for it," continued Calista. "She is so good and
gentle, and does so much in such a quiet way. Just think! She sends
poor Mrs. Rolfe a dinner fit for a sick person every day, and always
sees to it herself."

"I am glad you told me," said Mary, feeling still more ashamed of her
harsh judgment. "I wonder if I could not do something for her."

"She wants old linen very much. I have just been making some
handkerchiefs for her, out of a fine old linen night-dress of mother's."

"I don't see how you could do that; I should think everything of your
mother's would be sacred," said Mary.

"I thought mother would like it if she were here," said Calista,
simply; "and I wanted to give something of my own."

Here the conversation ended.

But as Mary sat down to her desk, she said to herself, "I am envious
and jealous, and that is the whole of it. Calista's money has spoiled
me more than it has her." And the snake, being called by his right
name, dived into his den to be seen no more that day.



CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

AN EXPLOSION.

THE weeks went on very quietly with Calista for a time—so quietly and
pleasantly that she sometimes wondered whether either her present or
her former life were not a dream. She worked as hard in school as if
she still had no other prospect than that of becoming a teacher, and
found great delight in her drawing; for which she showed a special
talent. At home she took the place of a daughter. She helped in the
housekeeping, and learned to make cakes, and preserves, and pickles in
endless variety. She read aloud to Mrs. Fabian, and saw, in a quiet
way, a good deal of company, and listened to a great deal of clever
conversation.

She would have been perfectly happy only for that thought which was
always in the background—poor Aunt Priscilla. She could hear very
little about her. Mr. Davis, who managed the farm, reported that he
rarely saw her. He thought she was shut in her room a good deal. Jael
had a younger woman with her,—her daughter, he thought,—and he feared
Miss Priscilla did not fare very well.

At last, one crisp, delightful morning in late October, Calista came
in from an early run in the garden with her hands full of the hardy
flowers which that mild climate often spares till Christmas. As she
came into the entry, she found old Cassius talking with Mr. Fabian, and
both wearing such anxious, perturbed faces that she started and dropped
her basket.

"Oh, I am sure something has happened to aunt!" said she. "Do tell me!
What is it?"

"Don't alarm yourself, my dear," said Mr. Fabian. "I think the time has
come for interfering in your poor aunt's behalf. Tell Miss Calista your
story, Cassius, but first come in out of the draught."

"Tom Edgar and me was a-coming home from sitting up with old Mr.
Heminway," Cassius began, without any of his usual prefaces; "it was
about five, and not very light, when we see old Zeke and Jael come out
of Miss Stanfield's house, all loaded down with bundles. They hid 'em
away in the Red Hollow, and started back for more, I suppose. Tom says,
says he,—

"'Uncle Cash, they're robbing the house. I wonder if they've killed the
old lady?'

"Says I, 'Tom, you keep watch here, and I'll run home and get my horse
and ride into town as fast as I can go.'

"You see, I thought Tom was the strongest, if it came to a tussle, and
I knew the old mare would go faster with me than with any one."

"Oh, Mr. Fabian, do let us go out there at once!" said Calista, in an
agony of impatience. "Oh, won't you do something?"

"We will do everything. Don't distress yourself, my dear. We must get
some force together, and proper authority, and then we will set out
directly," said Mr. Fabian.

"But you will take me with you?" said Calista.

"No, my dear, not till we find out what state things are in. I promise
you, you shall go the moment there is anything to do. Now, be a good
girl and try to keep composed."

"I will," said Calista; "only do send for me as soon as you can."


Mr. Fabian was not the man to let grass grow under his feet, but it
seemed an age of agonized suspense before Tom Edgar arrived on his
splendid black horse, about the last relic of his prosperous days.

"We've caught them—caught them in the very act!" said he, as soon as
he could speak. "I believe they would have got off, but the old woman,
in her hurry, tried to cross the middle of the hollow, and got bogged.
I had hard work to save her, I can tell you. I thought I should go in
myself. They had cleaned out the house pretty well, but we have got
some of the things, and I guess we shall find the rest."

"But my aunt!" exclaimed Calista. "Never mind the things."

"Well, I'm afraid the old lady is in a pretty bad way," said Tom,
gravely. "Mr. Fabian says you are to come out in the little carriage
directly, and bring Aunt Betsy and the doctor; and here's a note for
madam. I spoke to the old lady coming along, and she will be all ready,
and the doctor is half way there by this time. Here's the note."

"Mr. Fabian says:

   "'I wish you to come at once, and bring some clean linen and clothes
for the poor thing, who is in a pitiful condition, and quite
unconscious. Let Calista come with you. It is possible her voice may
rouse Miss Stanfield. Only for Cassius and Tom we should never have
succeeded.'"

"You must have some refreshment, Mr. Edgar," said Mrs. Fabian, always
considerate. "Will you take some breakfast? Miranda, give Mr. Edgar
some breakfast. Put on your bonnet, Calista. I will quickly get
together what is needed."

With such a perfect housekeeper as Mrs. Fabian, it was the work of a
few minutes to collect a basket of clean linen, tea, and sugar, and
whatever a sick person would be likely to need. They called for Aunt
Betsy, but she had already "caught a ride" with Dr. Elsmore, and when
they arrived at the Stanfield mansion, she met them at the door.

"I'm glad you've come. Did thee bring some clean linen, Maria Fabian?
Yes, I see: trust thee to think of everything. Doctor says she has
been drugged with something, though he doesn't know what, and that
washing her and changing her clothes will be as likely to rouse her as
anything. Calista, thee 'd better stay down here till we get her fixed
a little."

"No, no, let her come up," said the doctor. "Miss Stanfield may notice
her niece's voice."

"Oh yes, do," said Calista.

And in a moment she had run up the well-remembered stairs, and was
bending over her aunt, kissing her and speaking words of love and
tenderness into her ear. But there was no voice, nor any that answered.

Priscilla lay on her bed, her eyes half open and dull as a dead
person's. Her night-dress and bed-clothes looked as if they had not
been changed for weeks. Some dry remnants of bread and a tumbler of
sour milk stood near her on a little table. She was terribly emaciated,
and was hardly to be recognized by those who had seen her a few weeks
before.

"She looks starved," whispered Calista.

"I fear she is starved, and worse," answered the doctor, gravely. "But,
now, if you know of a room near by which can be comfortably fitted up,
you may set about it, while Miss Betsy and Aunt Sally get her washed
and her clothes changed."

"We had better take Miss Druett's room, I think," said Calista, to Mrs.
Fabian, as they stood in the entry. "The bed is tolerably good, and it
is the only one, except mine, which has been used since I came to the
house."

"And where was yours?"

"Up in the attic," answered Calista. "This is Miss Druett's room," she
continued, opening the door as she spoke. "It does not seem to have
been disturbed. Here are all the seals just as Mr. Fabian put them on.
I wonder they did not break open the drawers."

"Very likely some superstition restrained them," said Mrs. Fabian. "It
was a sad day for your poor aunt when Miss Druett died."

"Yes, she was the only person who had any influence with her. Shall I
open all the windows? It seems very close."

"Do, my dear, and see if you can procure some wood and the means of
making a fire. Nothing freshens up the air of a room like an open fire."

When Calista came back with her basket of wood and chips, and looked in
the cupboard for a tinder-box (there were no lucifers or parlor matches
in those days), Mrs. Fabian attacked the bed as energetically as any
housemaid.

By the time the poor invalid had been washed and dressed, the room had
assumed a neat and habitable aspect. Sally carried her in her arms as
if she had been an infant, and laid her in bed.

"Is she dead?" asked Calista, in a tearful whisper.

"Oh no, honey; she's better. She opened her eyes, and swallowed some
water. Now I'll just run down and make a little wine-whey—that's soon
made and very strengthening—and if she takes that, we'll try her with
some broth. But we must be very careful, for I don't believe she has
had any food for two or three days. I suppose there is wine in the
house?"

"There ought to be plenty in the cellar, but I have no notion where
the keys are or what may be left," replied Calista. "For aught I know,
these wretches may have drunk it all."

"Oh, I've got the keys. She had them hid in the bed, as if that would
do any good."

And Sally departed, leaving Mrs. Fabian and Calista with the invalid.


Presently Aunt Sally came back with her whey, and with great care
proceeded to feed Miss Priscilla, who swallowed two or three spoonsful
apparently without the least consciousness of what she was doing.

"That's well," said Sally. "When folks can swallow, there's always
hopes of them. Now, I must go home for a little, but I'll come back and
stay to-night. Do you mean to stay, Miss Calista?"

"Oh yes. Please do let me, Mrs. Fabian," said Calista, anticipating
Mrs. Fabian's cautious—"Really, I don't know." "You know she might come
to herself any time and know me. Oh, it would be worth so much if she
would. After all, she was my father's sister, and she did give me a
home. I am afraid I have been very ungrateful."

"Some folks is thankful for small favors, ain't they?" said Sally,
aside, to Mrs. Fabian. "I wouldn't treat a stray cat as Miss Priscy
used to treat that poor child. But there is something in what she
says," she added, aloud. "Miss Priscy might come to and know her, and
perhaps say something she ought to hear."

"I will ask Mr. Fabian," said the lady, perplexed between her feeling
for Miss Priscy and her care for Calista. "He will know what is best."


"Really, my love, I think Calista is right," said Mr. Fabian. "I think
there is no real danger. These wretches are already on their way to
Cohansey jail under a very sufficient guard, and Mr. Davis and his son
have volunteered to remain in the house all night. As Calista says, it
is very desirable she should be with her aunt when she recovers her
senses, both from motives of affection and because the poor lady may be
able to give us important information."

"I think you said you had recovered all the property," said Mrs. Fabian.

"All that is recoverable; that is, all the silver and such like. A
great deal has been destroyed in mere wantonness. And as for the wines,
real Burgundy and the most valuable Madeira wasted like water." And
Mr. Fabian shut his eyes and groaned. "They must have been tipsy when
they planned their flight, or they would have been more clever about
it. The old woman, who seemed to feel some gratitude to Tom Edgar for
rescuing her from a terrible death in the bog, said they tried to open
the bricked up cellar, but every time they did, they heard the old
gentleman firing pistols at them inside."

"Lawful Suz!" said Sally. "What do you s'pose it was?"

"No doubt the bursting of champagne and cider bottles disturbed by the
concussion. I think, my love, we had better go back and send Calista
some comforts and necessaries in the way of provisions and the like.
One or both of us can come out in the morning."

Mrs. Fabian bade Calista farewell with many embraces. In about two
hours the horses came back with a load of bedding, provisions, and the
like, and also with Chloe, who, on hearing of the catastrophe, had at
once and adroitly inserted Jubalina in her place at Miss McPherson's,
and came out to help take care of her old and her young miss.

Calista's watch was destined to last more than one or two days. Miss
Priscilla remained in about the same state, eating and drinking what
was given her, but, as it seemed, almost without consciousness. Mrs.
Fabian had fitted up a comfortable room for Calista, and Miss Betsy
would not allow her to sit up at night; but by day she only left the
sick room for her meals and the open air exercise her friends insisted
on.


One afternoon she was sitting alone with her aunt, Miss Betsy having
gone to lie down. It was one of those perfect days which never come
except late in the autumn, and both windows were open, though a little
fire was burning on the hearth. Calista sat by the open window musing
over all the changes that had taken place in a year. She almost felt
inclined to doubt her own identity. Chloe had just been up to ask what
Miss Calista would have for supper; and as Miss Calista, as usual, had
no opinion of her own, she had suggested hot cream biscuit and fried
oysters.

"Just to think,—" said Calista to herself, as she leaned out of the
window to watch a flight of birds making for the reed-beds on the
river—"just to think of Chloe's asking 'me' what I would like for
supper! I, who used to be snapped at and sent away from the table for
asking for more butter. To think how many times I have gone to bed
hungry in this very house! I wonder if it is all a dream, like the
dreams of pudding and roast meat I used to have in those days."

A slight movement at the bed made her look round. Miss Priscilla was
regarding her with a look of intelligence and full of wonder. Calista
felt the need of perfect calmness, but her heart beat fast as she bent
over her aunt.

"Calista! It is Calista, isn't it?"

"Yes, Aunt Priscy. Are you better? Do you want anything?"

She waited in a kind of awe for her aunt's first words, anti when they
came, she almost laughed aloud in the sudden revulsion of feeling.

"Calista, who is frying oysters?"

"Chloe, aunt. Mrs. Fabian sent some."

"Chloe!" in a tone of surprise. Then, as memory came slowly back, "But
how did you come here?"

"I came to take care of you, Aunt Priscy."

"But you must not stay!" said Miss Priscilla, in a low tone of abject
terror. "They will come back and kill you, and give me more of that
dreadful medicine. Oh, Calista, I haven't been good to you, but can't
you get me away from them? Can't you?"

"You need have no more fear of those wretches, Aunt Priscy," said
Calista, trembling between fear and excitement. "They are all safe in
Cohansey jail."

"All! What, Jael too?"

"Yes, all; and you have no more to fear from them. Aunt Betsy and
myself are taking care of you; and Chloe has come back to do the work."

"But how was it? And, where am I?" asked Miss Priscy, bewildered. "This
is not my room; this is Druey's!"

"We moved you in here to have your room and bed cleaned, Aunt Priscy.
Don't you like it?"

"Yes, it is all very nice; and you are a good girl to come back—a very
good girl. You won't leave me, will you?"

"No, indeed, aunt," said Calista, trying to steady her voice. "You know
I would not have gone if I could have helped it."

"I know! But my mind is confused," said the poor lady. "Are you sure
those people are gone?"

"Quite sure, aunt. Did they use you badly?"

"They beat me and starved me to make me tell where my father's money
was hid, and when I said I didn't know, they gave me horrible stuff. It
made me crazy."

"But you are better now," said Calista.

"Yes; I am not crazy now. Calista, I want to see Mr. Settson. Send for
him."

"Yes, we'll send for him right away," said Miss Betsy, who had entered
the room unperceived; "but thee mustn't talk any more now. Calista, go
to thy supper, and tell John Davis to go for Mr. Settson—

"And the doctor," she added, following her to the door. "I mistrust she
will not last long now she has come to herself."

Calista returned to kiss her aunt, and Miss Priscy held her with her
thin hand and looked wistfully at her.

"I should like a nice fresh raw oyster," she said. "Could I have one?"

"Yes, yes, dear; you shall have what you want," said Calista, unable
to keep back her tears at the changed tone and manner; "shall she not,
Aunt Betsy?"

"Yes, an oyster is just the thing; but let Calista go now."

"And, Calista, tell Chloe not to use butter to fry with. It is
extravagant, and lard is just as good."

"I will, aunt." And Calista finally escaped.

She sent a messenger for the doctor and lawyer, who came together.

"Let her have just what she fancies; it won't make any difference,"
was the doctor's sentence; "she is running down like a clock. There is
nothing to be done but to give her a little stimulant to keep her up as
long as we can. But it is wonderful how clear her mind is. She seems as
bright as ever."

Miss Priscilla had a short private conference with Mr. Settson, who
came out of the room wiping his glasses and his eyes.

"She wants you, Calista," said he. "She understands the whole affair
now, and says she is glad all will come to you. Shall I send any one
out to you?"

"Oh, if Mary would come! If she is not afraid, I should so like to have
her."


But Mary was afraid, and showed it so obviously that her father decided
that she would be neither a help nor a comfort, and accepted Miss
Meeks's offer instead. Mr. Fabian was disabled by one of his rare
attacks of illness, and his wife could not leave him; but she heaped
Miss Meeks with everything she thought could be a comfort to herself or
Calista, remarking in her silvery, emphatic voice, that she was glad
Calista had friends who would not desert her in the hour of trial.

Poor Mary fled into her room to cry herself into a fit of sick
headache. It was a terrible tumble, but a wholesome, and it was noticed
that Mary's Christianity was hereafter much more charitable and less
didactic in its character.


When Calista came back to her aunt's bedside, she took both her hands
and drew her down beside her.

"Mr. Settson has told me all about the will," said she. "I did not hide
it, Calista. I did not believe my father ever made it. But it is quite
right. I was a wicked woman. I had Richard's letters, and never let my
father see them. Poor Dick! He was such a pretty boy, with curly hair.
'Pity' he used to call me; but I had not much pity on him. But father
need not have taught him—"

She seemed to be wandering and, desirous to call her back, Calista
said, gently—

"But you are sorry now, Aunt Priscy. You wouldn't do so again."

"Yes, I am sorry. I would take it back, but we can't take back the
past. It won't come back. Calista, I was not good to you, but you won't
turn me out of the house, will you? I was born here, and I should like
to—You won't turn me out, will you?" she repeated, wistfully looking
into Calista's face.

"No, indeed, aunt! Don't think of such a thing!" said Calista. "But
don't mind about business—not now. Don't you want to have Mr. Alger or
Mr. Lee come to see you?"

"No, no!" said Miss Priscy. "But you may get your Bible and read to me,
if you like. Read in St. John. Your grandmother liked that."

Glad of so much concession, Calista got her book and read on far into
the night. The restlessness of death was on Miss Priscilla, but so long
as Calista read, she was tolerably quiet, sometimes murmuring over
words that struck her mind or fancy.

At last she dropped asleep, and Calista dozed too, leaning on the side
of the bed. She was wakened by a gentle touch from Miss Meeks, who had
shared her vigil and spent almost the whole night in prayer.

Calista looked at her aunt, and by the light of a new day saw the awful
gray shadow which never falls but once.

Her aunt was sensible; she pressed Calista's hand and spoke faintly—

"Child—never love money—it is poison if you do; you'll have a great
deal—but you had better lose it all—than set your heart on it."

"You will forgive me, won't you, aunt?" said Calista, through her tears.

"There was nothing to forgive," said she; "I am the one to need
forgiveness—you and Druey were good to me—always." She held Calista's
hand fast in hers, and looked fixedly at her.

Then collecting her strength for a last effort, "God bless you!" she
said, in her old strong tones—"God bless you!" Her head fell back.

"She is gone," said Aunt Chloe, coming forward and closing the poor
eyes that had looked their last. "The Lord have mercy on her! She
confessed him in her death, if she didn't in her life."


There is little more to tell. Old Jael was no sooner in Cohansey
jail than she was attacked with rheumatic fever, of which she died
after long suffering. She seemed much struck with Tom Edgar's bravery
in saving her life at the risk of his own. She had every comfort
consistent with her situation, but there was no cure and little
alleviation was possible. At first she positively refused to hear one
word on religion; but Tom Edgar at last won her to hear the Bible read,
and by slow degrees her mind opened to the truth.

Before she died she made a full confession. She said she and her
husband had imposed on Miss Priscilla's credulity, in order to gain
access to General Stanfield's house and get possession of the treasure
which they believed he had hidden there. They had meant to frighten
away Miss Druett and Calista, or to work on Miss Priscilla till she
drove them out of the house, but the death of the former had opened the
way for them more easily than they expected.

They had found Miss Priscilla harder to deal with than they expected.
Her suspicions became aroused, and she insisted on keeping the keys
herself, so that at last they had given her things to make her keep her
bed. What the "things" were she obstinately refused to tell, saying
that some one might make a bad use of them again, but they were roots
and herbs that her people knew of.

She declared that her daughter had nothing to do with the robbery or
with ill-treating Miss Priscilla. There being no proof against the
younger woman, she was allowed to go free. And after her mother's
death, she disappeared from the place.

Zeke was tried and convicted, but his mind failed so entirely before
the end of the trial that he was sent to an asylum; from which,
however, he contrived to escape, and was found dead in the Red Hollow,
to which some glimmering of remembrance had no doubt led him.

The old house was put in good repair, but Calista did not come to live
in it for several years. She lived as a daughter with Mr. and Mrs.
Fabian, cheering their old age with daughterly care and affection.

As soon as she was of age, she visited her mother's old home, where
she found Mrs. Tom Folsom old and poor, but still working to support
herself and her helpless son, and after much persuasion prevailed on
that lady to accept a tolerable provision, which should place her
above the need of labor much too hard for her age. Miss Malvina's
little old red house happening to be in the market, Calista bought
and fitted it up neatly as a residence for her cousin, and saw her
comfortably established before leaving her. Mrs. John Folsom, who was
still preaching self-denial, thought Miss Stanfield might have used
her money to better purpose, but every one else was pleased to see the
hard-working, independent woman so well provided for.

Nor was this Calista's only work of benevolence. Her money was not
like a stagnant reservoir, poisoning all who came near, but being
kept running like a flowing stream, it brought many a blessing which
returned to the owner again. It paid Mary Burns's way through school
till she was able to take a first-class place as teacher. It brightened
and soothed the declining years of Miss Meeks. And far and wide, in
heathen lands and at home, it helped to spread the good tidings of the
gospel of peace.

"Calista is not spoiled, though she has seen so much of the world and
had so much money," remarked Mary Settson, when Calista came home from
Europe, whither she had gone on her bridal tour when she married Mr.
Fabian's nephew. "I was a little afraid for her, but she is not spoiled
at all."

"The world has not spoiled her, because she has never loved the world,"
said Belle Adair—Belle Adair no more, but the hard-working wife of a
city clergyman. "Neither money nor the world can do us any harm unless
we let them into our hearts. And depend upon it, Mary, those who live
for this world most entirely are those who get the least enjoyment out
of it."


   "THEY THAT WILL BE RICH FALL INTO TEMPTATION AND A SNARE . . . THE LOVE
OF MONEY IS THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL."—_Paul to Timothy._






*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75576 ***