CONCLUSION.
AT the end of the week the stockings were all collected; and a goodly
show they made. True, some of them were not exactly models in shape,
and a good many seemed to have been knit under the prevalent impression
that soldiers are necessarily giants. But, on the whole, they were very
creditable to the industry and patriotism of Miss Armitage's young
ladies. They reached their destination in safety, and doubtless ore
this have fulfilled the destiny of all army socks.
A few days after they were sent away, Henrietta came to her mother with
a very serious face.
"Mother, will you let me try another pair of socks? I want to see if I
cannot get them done without losing time."
"Certainly, my child," replied her mother. "You will find abundance of
nice yarn in the basket."
"But, mother, I think I would rather buy the yarn with my own money. It
will seem more like giving them all myself. Don't you think so?"
"Oh!" said Mrs. Laurens, smiling. "Yes, certainly, if you want to give
the yarn as well as the work. But I am afraid I cannot go out to-day
to buy it for you. However, I think I see how we can manage that," she
continued,—seeing that Hetty looked disappointed at the postponement
of her project. "You can pay me the price of the yarn out of your own
purse, and I will give the money to Mrs. L—, at the employment-rooms."
"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Henrietta. "But it will be so little,
mother,—only fifty cents. I am afraid Mrs. L— will laugh at me."
"It will pay a poor woman for making two flannel shirts, my dear, and
thus enable 'her' to pay the rent of her room or buy a frock for her
baby. Moreover, I don't think Mrs. L— would laugh at you for giving
ever so little, if it were done in the right spirit."
"Well, mother, here are the fifty cents, and I will begin directly,—as
soon as I have done practising, I mean. And, mother, you will see—I
mean, I hope you will see—that I won't be idle over those as I was over
the others. I think I have counted the cost this time, mother."
Hetty was as good as her word. She worked most faithfully, and suffered
no temptation to walk or to read, or even romp with Corporal, to draw
her aside from her self-imposed task. Doing her work faithfully, she
soon learned to love it. And she moreover learned from Elsie the
surprising fact that it is possible to knit and read at the same time.
By the same competent professor she was initiated into the art and
mystery of using a knitting-sheath, and found, as will every one else
who has the patience to learn, the great advantage of that product of
the wisdom of our ancestors.
But Hetty has passed through a great sorrow since then, which has
perhaps done more than any thing else could to steady her character.
Cecy—poor little patient suffering Cecy—has passed away to that land
whereof the inhabitants shall no more say, "I am sick."
A little before the holidays, she appeared more than commonly weak and
languid. And though she suffered less pain than usual, she complained
that every thing tired her and that it hurt her to sit up.
On Christmas-day she appeared much brighter,—was carried to her usual
place on the sofa, and enjoyed the day even more than common. As she
was going to bed, she said to her mother,—
"Will you finish my socks to-morrow, mother? I am afraid I cannot knit
any more just now; and you know the soldiers will want them very much
this cold weather."
Mrs. Laurens promised, and Cecy was content.
She rested but little during the night, but towards morning dropped
into a quiet slumber. Her mother, who had left her for a few minutes,
was struck, on returning, with the altered expression of her face, and,
rousing Peter, sent him at once for the doctor.
But before he arrived, all was over! There was no struggle, and,
apparently, no pain; and it may be doubted whether the little girl was
conscious of any change till she gazed upon the glories of heaven!
After the first agony of parting, Mrs. Laurens could not but be
relieved that the long suffering was over. She had always been haunted
by the apprehension that she should die first, and leave Cecy to the
care of strangers; but now that danger was past. The dear child was
at peace. Her short and weary pilgrimage had been made as easy and as
happy as the sad circumstances permitted. Nothing had been spared which
could give her a pleasure or soften a pain; and almost to the last day
of her life she had enjoyed the happiness of using her little strength
for the good of others. Mrs. Laurens was able sincerely and thankfully,
though with many tears, to say, "Thy will be done!"
To Henrietta the stroke was a heavy one. She had always loved her
sister dearly,—more than she herself knew; but she could not help
remembering that of late she had often been unkind to her. She had even
been ashamed of her, and wished she might be sent away; and she had
been jealous of her mother's love towards her. What would she not have
given if all this had not been done!—but it was too late. The door was
shut. That which was crooked could not be made straight, and that which
was wanting could never be supplied in this world. Henrietta was made
bitterly to feel that the sting of death is sin; and she wept for her
sister as one who could not be comforted.
The day before the funeral, Mrs. Laurens was very unwell, and kept her
bed entirely. Henrietta was sitting alone in her own room, knitting
mechanically, and thinking over and over again all that had passed in
the course of the last few months,—when there was a gentle knock at the
door, and Minny entered.
Henrietta and Minny had had very little to do with each other of late.
There had been, at Elsie's earnest request, a show of reconciliation.
The girls had shaken hands, begged each other's pardon, and even
exchanged kisses, and they did not refuse to speak when they met. But
the intercourse was too suggestive of past trouble and disgrace to be
pleasant to either of them.
Minny had kept her word, and tried hard to be a better girl; and
certainly there was a manifest improvement. She no longer cheated at
lessons and exercises; she told fewer great stories, and ceased to
gossip about her own and her mother's friends. And every one noticed
how much more quiet she was in school. But it was up-hill work. She had
so long accustomed herself to evade her lessons in every possible way
that she found it difficult to form habits of application. Her memory
would not go without its accustomed crutches, and she often had the
mortification of failing after she had taken a great deal of honest
pains.
It was vexatious to lose her place in the class, to be marked
imperfect, and, worst of all, to have Miss Armitage say, at the end of
the week,—
"You have a great many imperfect marks, Minny. I am afraid you are
growing very careless."
When in fact, she had never worked so hard in her life.
Moreover, she found it very difficult always to tell the truth. The
exaggeration, the false statement or downright falsehood, would slip
from her lips almost unawares. All this was very discouraging, and she
had nearly come to the conclusion that Elsie was right in telling her
that she was beginning at the wrong end.
Henrietta looked surprised, and somewhat indignant, as Minny opened the
door.
But Minny gave her no time to speak. She came straight up to her, and,
throwing her arms round her neck, she burst into tears, exclaiming,—
"Oh, Hetty, I am so sorry about Cecy! I am so sorry I spoke so about
her, and would give any thing in the world to take it all back! Oh,
dear Hetty, won't you forgive me?"
Henrietta's rising anger and distrust vanished like frost before the
sun. She returned Minny's embrace, and they wept together.
"Peter said you were here, and told me to come right up," said Minny,
after they had composed themselves a little. "I have wanted to see you
so much,—you can't think! I should have come as soon as I heard she
was dead, but mother wouldn't let me. She thought you would rather
be alone. But I felt so badly, she told me I might come to-day. See
what I have brought!" She uncovered the carefully wrapped up basket
she carried, and showed Henrietta that it was filled with rare and
beautiful flowers.
"Almost all these are from my own plants," she continued. "I cut
off every white and purple flower I had,—rosebuds and camellias and
heliotropes and all,—only mother gave me the tuberoses and the apple
geraniums, because, she said, they were so sweet. And I want—" but she
could not control her voice,—"I want, if your mother is willing, to
have them all put with her. You don't know how much I felt as though I
wanted to do something for you; and this was all I could think of."
"Come and see her," said Henrietta, pressing her friend's hand. "You
don't know how lovely she looks, even in death. Madam Wentworth is
down-stairs, and she will take care of the flowers. Oh, she has been so
good!"
The two girls went down together to the drawing-room, where the little
body lay. Thu face was very little changed. Cecy had always been pale
in life; but all the old look of pain and weariness was gone.
"There was no other thought express'd
But long disquiet merged in rest."
The girls looked a while in silence.
"You were not downright unkind to her, as I was," said Hetty. "Oh, what
would I not give now, if I never had made her cry!"
"Do not waste your strength in vain regrets, my dear children," said
Madam Wentworth. "The dear child is now beyond our care, and all her
troubles are as though they had never been. But let this hour teach you
a lesson for all the future. Try to treat all your friends as you will
wish you had treated them when they have left the world. I am glad to
see you feel this so much. I hope it is a good sign."
"Indeed, I do try to be a better girl," sobbed Minny; "but it is very
hard."
"You must not be discouraged," said Madam Wentworth, kindly. "The
habits of a life are not to be broken up in a day or a month. But do
you try the right way? You know you can do nothing of yourself."
"Elsie told me that," replied Minny, in a low voice, "and I have tried
lately; but I think I do more wrong things than ever."
"Perhaps you see wrong where you never thought of it before," said
Madam Wentworth. "Is not that it? I think you will find it so, if you
examine yourself closely. But do not be discouraged. Watch and pray.
You are sure to succeed at last."
"How good she is!" said Minnie, as she went away. "I wonder if one
could ever be like her? I was wishing the other day that I was poor;
but money don't seem to have spoiled her."
"No, indeed," replied Henrietta. "And, Minny, look at the Stanley
girls. Where did you ever see better or more lady-like girls than they
are?"
"Some of the girls say that Letty is proud," said Minny.
"That's just because she never will gossip with them," replied Hetty.
"I really believe it is running after fashion and fashionable company
that spoils people more than money," said Minny. "Do you know, Hetty,
that poor, funny old woman came to church again yesterday, and I asked
her into our pew. Of course, it wasn't any thing to boast of; but it
seemed, somehow, like making amends. How we did act that day!—But I was
the worst. Did your mother find you out?"
"Oh, I told her," replied Henrietta. "I couldn't be happy with such
a thing on my mind, you know. So, when I told her all the rest, I
couldn't keep that back, you know. And, oh, how glad I was to get rid
of it!"
"That makes me think," said Minny. "Sometimes I feel as though I ought
to tell Miss Armitage about those compositions."
"I would," said Hetty. "I told her about mine, and the dates and all."
"Wasn't she very angry?" asked Minny.
"Yes, at first she was, and she took away ever so many of my credits;
but she was very kind afterwards: so I was glad I had the courage to
confess my faults."
"But I hate to lose all my credits," said Minny; "especially as I have
got so few lately."
"Yes; but then, you know, Minny, they are not ours,—not honestly ours.
It is like taking something that don't belong to one."
Minny gave a deep sigh. "Well, I suppose it is. I will think about it,
any way. Good-by, Hetty. I wish I could do something to help you."
"You have," said Hetty. "I feel a great deal better than I did before
you came. I am so glad we are all friends again!"
Minny did think about it, and came to the right conclusion. It was
hard to give up the credits,—harder still to see that Miss Armitage
watched and distrusted her at the very time she was trying her best to
be honest. But Minny is learning to be influenced by higher motives
than when she began. She is learning to love truth and goodness for
their own sake and for the sake of the Author of all truth. She is
regaining her place in the school,—honestly this time, and by her own
exertions,—and she cannot help seeing that the girls begin to trust and
to respect her.
"Oh, it is only one of Minny's stories!" is a phrase now seldom or
never heard, even from Sarah Stone.
Elsie and Hetty are very fond of her, too. And, altogether, she finds
herself happier than ever before in her life. She cannot resist the
pleasure of now and then treating herself and her friends to caramels
and chocolate-drops. But many a dime and quarter which used to go to
the confectioner is now dropped into a box hidden in her drawer and
marked, "For the sick soldiers." The existence of this box, and that of
a superb cushion which she is embroidering for our old friend Corporal,
and which is intended as a surprise for Hetty on her birthday, are
Minny's only two remaining "great secrets."
[Illustration: THE END]