ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD.
TIME passed quietly on until Easter, which brought a fortnight's
holiday. It came late that year. The weather was warm and fine, and the
children enjoyed the rest they had honestly earned; for, under their
sister's charge, they had worked well and made marked progress.
But though Dora needed the rest far more than her pupils, she would not
take it. She had received an unexpected present of half a sovereign
from a relation. This would just pay the fee of an examination she was
anxious to pass; and she resolved to "study up and go in for it." In
vain her mother begged her to give herself more time for preparation.
Dora had made up her mind, and was not to be dissuaded.
Edgar had a much shorter holiday than his brothers and sisters. He had,
however, both Easter Monday and Tuesday, and a fellow clerk having
invited him to spend the time at his home in Hampshire, he went down
with him on the Saturday afternoon and returned late on the following
Tuesday. He came back full of pleasant recollections of his visit to
the old-fashioned, comfortable farmhouse, where he had been so kindly
and hospitably entertained.
His mother fearing that his work the next day in the close, noisy city
would prove more irksome than usual, and that he might find the house
quiet when he came in, purposely gave the children their tea early and
sent them for a walk under Mary's care. But he looked so cheerful and
bright that she knew at once he was neither weary nor depressed.
"Where's Giles?" were his first words.
"In the schoolroom, working away at the Latin exercise he intends
asking you to correct presently," replied Mrs. Grainger. "The little
ones have gone out with Mary. Sit down, dear, and take your tea."
Instead of obeying her, he put his arm round her shoulder, and, bending
down over her, said,—
"There's no need to bother about Dr. Fowler's bill, mother dear. I've
got a rise in my salary."
He received the sympathy he wanted, as he knew he should. After all he
had found many compensations for the work that was so uncongenial to
him.
"The tea must get cold to-night," he continued. "I must have a word or
two with Giles before I do anything."
With that he went to the schoolroom, where he was welcomed with a very
bright smile.
"You haven't had tea already, have you?" Giles asked.
"No, not yet."
"Will you help me a bit afterwards?"
"Of course I will. Exercise 40? Why, you're getting on famously. How
surprised Mr. Millen will be when you go back the week after next!"
For a moment Giles made no answer. When he looked up, his lip was
quivering. He rarely showed any deep outward sign of emotion, and until
now Edgar had never really known how deep a grief it was to him to be
obliged to get his education at home.
"Don't tease a fellow," he said, trying hard to smile and speak
bravely. "But when I go back, they'll find I haven't wasted my time."
"I'm not teasing; I mean it," said Edgar. "I'm to have more money
from now, and to-day Mr. Darby—that's the head man in the firm, you
know—gave me a sovereign because I had had the ordinary sense to see a
blunder somebody had made in the books. We'll borrow the rest of mother
until I get my next month's salary then I'll pay her back. And we'll
ask her to write to Mr. Millen this very evening, send him the fee for
the next term, and tell him to expect you after the holidays."
As Edgar went on talking, Giles' face became radiant. Now it suddenly
grow serious.
"But are you sure you don't want anything yourself?" he asked. "You
said the other night you wished you had a book on medicine. I forget
the name of it. Couldn't you buy it with this sovereign?"
"Perhaps I might," replied Edgar, lightly, "but getting it for myself
wouldn't give me half so much pleasure as sanding you to school.
Besides," he continued, more gravely, "I daresay I shall get the book
after a while. I am beginning to believe in that old saying, 'All
things come round to him who will but wait.' Do you know who put that
belief into me in the first instance?"
Giles shook his head.
"You did yourself. I have an inward conviction that some day my longing
will be realised, and that I shall be a doctor. I know it seems all but
impossible, but I have the faith, and that makes all the difference in
the world. You see I owe a great deal to you, Giles."
A few more words passed between them, and then Edgar went back to his
mother and his tea. He left Giles very happy, but with a quiet kind
of happiness. In Dora's unexpected joy, she had not known how to keep
herself still, but Giles sat with only a slight smile on his face. Then
a grave, studious expression stole over his features, and with doubled
application, he went on with his exercise.
Katie, comparatively speaking, spent very little of her holiday at
home. The Paffords had decided to change their abode, and on Tuesday
in Easter week began their removal. Katie, who was very good-natured,
offered her services, and as her training had made her extremely useful
and quick, she gave considerable help. Indeed, Connie took more help
from her than was just or right. She had been told she must pack all
her own possessions in her room, and, finding Katie willing to pack,
fetch, and carry, she merely directed, and her friend did her utmost to
obey her wishes.
By the end of the holidays the Paffords were tolerably settled in their
new home, and Katie was filled with envy at the large, freshly-painted
apartments and handsome furniture. Above all, she longed to possess a
similar room to Connie's. With its pretty maple-wood suite, and its
dainty curtains and toilet arrangements, it presented an unpleasing
contrast to the barely furnished, almost carpetless room which she
shared with Olive and Lottie.
Connie had often talked of a grand party her parents meant to give
as a house-warming, and as several young people were to be invited,
Katie naturally looked forward to being one of the guests. The party,
however, was postponed until the beginning of June, and Connie had told
her that a marquee would be erected on the lawn, which, decorated with
flowers and Chinese lanterns, would serve for a supper-room.
But Katie received no invitation, and as the time drew near she
wondered whether she had not better give Connie a hint that she had
forgotten to say she would be expected, when a conversation she
overheard explained the omission. Poor Katie! It was a hard lesson she
learnt that morning.
The room in which Miss Loam's pupils hung their hats and jackets was
separated into two divisions by a curtain, one being used by the elder,
and the other by the younger girls. Now Katie had been asked if she
would kindly see to the dressing of two little sisters, and on this
particular day she was attending to this duty when she heard Connie's
voice on the other side of the curtain.
It was the mention of her own name that first attracted her attention.
Of course she should have made her presence known, but she was so
astonished, hurt, and indignant at what she heard, that it never
once entered her mind she ought to warn her schoolfellows that she
was within earshot. So, with burning cheeks and great anger at her
heart, she bent over little Nita Westmacott's shoe as she buttoned it,
listening to what was said of her.
[Illustration: SHE BENT OVER LITTLE NITA'S SHOE.]
"Aren't you going to invite Katie Grainger?" asked Ethel Wilson, the
girl to whom Connie was talking.
"No," was the reply. "It's a great nuisance, because she really has
been very useful to us. They're awfully poor, you know, and so I
suppose she's used to doing a servant's work. Mamma says she shall make
her a present some day as a return. But we can't ask her to our party.
Sir Edwin Osmond's two nieces are coming, and lots of swell people,
and we can't have them see anybody at our house in such a shabby,
old-fashioned dress as Katie would be sure to wear."
"But she has been to your parties, hasn't she?"
"She came to one in the winter, and I never saw such a dress as she
wore in all my life. It looked as if it was made in Noah's Ark. And
she couldn't dance—had never learnt, she said; and she actually came
without gloves. I suppose she had never been to a dress party before,
and didn't know they were necessary."
And Connie went off into a peal of laughter, while Katie, on the other
side of the curtain, shook with anger and mortification.
"You are ready to go now. Good-bye, dears," she said in a whisper, and
the two little girls trotted away, leaving her still concealed behind
the curtain.
She stayed till Connie and Ethel Wilson had taken their departure; then
she hastily put on her own hat and jacket, and went home with hot tears
running down her cheeks. Arrived at No. 99, she went straight to her
room, and throwing herself on the bed, sobbed with wounded pride and
indignation.
Presently she heard cries of "Katie! Katie! Where are you, Katie?"
"I am coming," she called out, and having bathed her eyes and smoothed
her hair, she stepped outside.
On the landing was Robert.
"Why, what's the matter, Katie?"
"Nothing that you'd understand," she answered a little ungraciously.
"You might give a fellow a chance of proving that," he said, a little
reproachfully.
Before school life had separated them, the twins had been noted for
their friendliness and good understanding. During the last three or
four years, however, they had drifted apart. Now as Robert put his arm
fondly round her in the way he had often done in the old days when they
were little children, she felt all her heart suddenly going out to him.
"Oh, Robert," she said, "I've been such a simpleton."
"Is that all that's bothering you?" he asked. "Why, you little goose, I
might have told you that myself."
It is not the words that are spoken; it is the manner in which they are
said that affects us. This speech of Robert's was just the most loving
one he could have given her.
"It's about Connie," said Katie, breaking into tears again. "She's
mean, and horrid and nasty. She makes use of me, and then laughs at me
behind my back, and sneers at me because we are poor and I wear shabby
clothes. I wouldn't have believed it of her."
"It's just what one might expect of the Paffords," said Robert,
quietly. "I'd give them up if I were you."
"Yes, I will," and Katie's anger blazed forth and shone in her eyes.
"I'll never speak to Connie again as long as I live."
"Isn't that going a little too far? I fancy mother would say so if she
heard you."
"But she doesn't deserve it; she isn't worthy to be my friend," sobbed
Katie, vindictively.
"I don't want to be a prig and preach to you," and Robert blushed
crimson, "but if I were you, I'd try to return good for evil. Don't put
yourself in her way and court her friendship, as I'm afraid you have
done. Let her know, if you like, you are quite aware why she lets you
think you are one of her chums—I suppose you help her with her lessons
and things, don't you?"
Katie confessed she had often made clean copies of exercises for
Connie, and frequently acted as monitor in her place, staying behind
the rest of the girls and seeing the schoolroom was left in order when
her friend was anxious to get home early. She had, in fact, done more
than she had honestly any right to do.
"H'm!" said Robert, musingly. "Well, take my advice," he continued,
"and leave Miss Connie to look after her own work. But if the chance
to do her a good turn should happen, show her you don't bear malice,
and that you're still willing to do her a kindness. You know what I
mean—heap coals of fire on her head."
Katie felt very solemn. All the anger faded from her face and some of
the anger from her heart.
"But I should have to forgive her to do that," she said in a low voice.
"And can't you?"
"No."
"I think you'll have to, old girl. Mother forgave Jack, you know, for
having led me into mischief. Not that I blame him," added Robert,
hastily; "'twas a deal more my fault than his."
"It isn't the same kind of thing at all," said Katie, decidedly.
"I'm not so sure of that. Mother had a wrong to forgive, and so have
you. The two things are alike there, at any rate. And see what a lot
of good it has done Jack. Mother's beginning quite to love him, and he
knows it, and it makes a different boy of him."
"I know somebody else who's a different boy," said Katie.
And then, as there was nobody there to see, and his manner was so
encouraging, she put her arm round his neck and gave him what in her
childish days she used to call "a bear's hug," and Robert not only
submitted, but seemed quite to enjoy it.
"Katie," he said, half-shyly, "you've lost a friend to-day; suppose you
make one of me instead. I think we could help each other to be—what
father hoped we should try to be."
His words brought the promise she had made suddenly to her mind.
"Oh, Robert!"—and she actually gasped for breath—"I've forgotten all
about that. I haven't tried yet one bit."
"It's not too late to begin, and you haven't—" he stopped a moment,
then went on rapidly—"done anything awful as I have. But I know father
has forgiven me. Katie, would you like to see the letter I got from him
a few weeks ago? I haven't shown it to anybody yet—not even to mother;
but I'd like you to read it."
Katie had no thought of herself as she went with her brother into
his room and read that letter. It was full of forgiveness and loving
counsel. Towards the end came the words:
"Don't think I love you less because of what has happened; I love you
more. I know from what your mother has told me that you are not merely
showing your repentance by words. Struggle on, dear boy, and with the
help of God's Holy Spirit, which will be given in proportion as you
ask, you will conquer nobly and bravely in the end."
"It's a beautiful letter," said Katie, as she handed it back to Robert,
adding in a little outburst of love, "Oh? Isn't father good!"
"Yes, won't you try to be like him?"
"I can't. I—what do you mean, Robert?"
"In one way you can follow his example; you can forgive."
For a few minutes Katie looked steadily at the vision of chimney-pots
that could be seen from the window. Then her eyes came back and met her
brother's.
"Robert," she said, "I can do it. I feel I can do anything because you
and I are going to love each other and help each other to be good."
Ah! There is nothing like love. It makes the roughest road easy; the
heaviest burden light. Oh, children! Love your good heavenly Father,
and love each other; for love overcometh all things, love is stronger
than death, and love will lift us from earth to heaven, and set us
spotless at God's right hand.
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