NEW STUDIES.
THE next day, which was Saturday, was occupied by Mrs. Kennedy in
making acquaintance with the house, and in unpacking and putting away
the contents of her travelling trunks. Sophie was very much interested
in this proceeding, and particularly delighted with the sight of her
mother's portfolios of drawings and paintings.
"Can you sketch from nature, mamma?" she inquired.
"Yes, my dear; all the pictures in that purple book are sketches from
nature. There is a sketch of your grandmother's house there somewhere."
Sophie opened the book and found the sketch. "Oh, what a lovely place!"
she exclaimed. "Did grandmamma live in such a place as this?"
"Yes, that is a very good portrait of the house; the two high windows
that you see at the corner of the verandah were in your mamma's room."
"Do I look like her, mamma?" asked Sophie.
"Not much, Sophie. Your mother had a very bright color, and brown hair,
and her face was very full and round, when I last saw her. Your voice
puts me in mind of her sometimes. I hope you will be half as good and
sensible. Your mother was one of the steadiest persons I ever saw. If
she once made up her mind that any course was right—if she saw her way
clear before her, she always went straight forward, at any sacrifice to
herself."
Sophie sighed, but made no remark. Presently her mother took out two
workboxes, one after the other.
"Are you a good sewer, Sophie?" she inquired.
"No, mamma," said Sophie, blushing, "not very. I don't like to sew."
"Probably because you do not know how. But you must learn to sew, my
dear child. It is an art much more necessary than drawing, or playing
on the piano. I have brought you a work-box, you see, and I think we
must make that one of our first lessons, shall we?"
"Yes, mamma," said Sophie, admiring the pretty box with its complete
appointments, but a little alarmed at being set down to sew. "But I
would much rather learn to draw."
"Cannot you learn both?"
"I suppose so, mamma, but I do not like to sew or knit, or do any such
thing."
"What do you like?" asked her mother. "I like to read, mamma, and to
study some things."
"Such as what, Sophie?"
"History, mamma, especially natural history; and I like to translate
French, and sometimes to write compositions, when I feel like it."
"Do you like arithmetic?"
"Not much, mamma, it is so hard for me. I have no natural taste for
figures."
"You will have to acquire a taste, then, my dear, for figures are
almost as necessary as sewing. I suspect the fact is, you like to do
what you can do easily."
Sophie smiled. "You are right, I believe, mamma."
"The best natural taste, as you call it, would be a natural taste for
work, but that very few people possess. Nothing worth doing can be done
without work."
"But, mamma, great geniuses do not have to work so hard."
"Such as who, my dear?"
"Why—people that have a great genius for music or painting, like Mozart
or Paganini, or some of the great painters."
"You have chosen your instances rather unluckily: Mozart, who composed
and played the most difficult pieces at six years old, was a wonder
of study and industry. Paganini often practised for hours at a single
strain. Michael Angelo studied unceasingly, as have all the great
painters. No doubt other people have had as much genius as Michael
Angelo, but wanting the genius for work, their gifts were all in vain."
"Well, mamma," said Sophie, sighing, "I suppose I must learn to sew,
but I do not like to. I wish one could get along without it."
"You will like it better when you learn to sew fast and easily. As for
the arithmetic, we will see about it. Perhaps you have not begun in the
right way; there is a good deal in that. The next week will probably be
too much broken up by visits to allow of our doing much, but I hope,
after that, we shall both settle to our regular employments."
The next day was Sunday, and Sophie was glad to see the sun shining
when she arose. Before she was quite dressed, her mother rapped at her
door:
"Are you ready, Sophie? Your father is waiting for you."
Sophie was not quite ready, but she made as much haste as possible,
and accompanied her mother down stairs. She found all the servants
assembled in the dining-room, and her father sitting with the
large Bible and Prayer Book before him. As soon as they had seated
themselves, he read a chapter in the New Testament, and a Psalm, and
then they had prayers.
Sophie was pleased and affected by the scene, for she had strong
religious feelings, though she had never learned to apply them in
actions. But she saw the propriety of beginning the day with a solemn
appeal to the Disposer and Father of all, and particularly the
Sabbath—God's peculiar day. It made her think, too, of the time when
her mother was living, and able to join in their prayers; and she
prayed that she might be allowed to join her again in that land where
there are no more partings.
"Do you go to Sunday school, Sophie?" asked her mother, at breakfast.
"No, mamma, not now," answered Sophie. "I used to go, but my teacher
got married and went away, and then I did not care any more about it."
"What do you do all day Sunday?" said Mrs. Kennedy.
"I read, mamma, and write my compositions, and sometimes I learn my
lessons. Do you think it is wrong to study on Sunday?" she inquired,
seeing that her mother looked rather grave.
"That depends upon what you study, Sophie," answered her mother. "I do
not think it is right to use Sunday for lessons which should be learned
during the week. As long as we have one day in the week set apart for
religious improvement, we should, I think, use it for that purpose."
"But, mamma," said Sophie, "Sunday is such a dull day, if one does
nothing but read the Bible. Somehow it is all so familiar, and I have
read it so many times that I can never keep my mind fixed upon it."
"What did you study in Sunday school?" asked her father.
"We used to learn two or three verses in the Testament, papa, and say
them to Miss Fisher, and she explained them to us. And we learned
hymns, and talked about our library books. I liked it very well then,
but I do not care about it now."
"We must try to hit upon some new method of studying the Bible,
Sophie," remarked Mrs. Kennedy. "Perhaps you may find that you are not
as familiar with it as you imagine. I wonder if you can tell me now
what countryman Abraham was?"
"He was a Jew, was he not, mamma?"
Mrs. Kennedy smiled, and shook her head. "There were no people called
Jews till long after his time, my dear. You may take that for your
Sunday's lesson, and see if you can find out."
Sophie was a little vexed at being in the wrong. She was, as the girls
at school said, rather "touchy." And when any little thing happened
to displease her, she would color and bite her lips and look very
unamiable.
Mrs. Kennedy took no notice of these demonstrations of displeasure, but
continued, notwithstanding Sophie drew up her head in a manner which
she considered very dignified, "We are, perhaps, rather inclined to
overrate our stock of knowledge until we are called upon to make use of
it."
"But, mamma, how can I find out about Abraham? Does it tell in the
Bible?"
"In the Book of Genesis you will find all about him. But we must not
sit too long over the breakfast-table, or the girls will not have time
to get ready for church."
Sophie was quite delighted with her mother's appearance, when she came
down stairs, ready for church. She wore nothing expensive, but all her
clothes were so well chosen and put on, that Sophie thought she had
never seen any one better dressed. And yet Mrs. Kennedy did not appear
to think much about it either, though she was rather anxious to get
into church early.
They accordingly arrived at the church-door just as the second bells
began to toll, and there were very few people in church. After they had
taken their seats, Mrs. Kennedy opened a Bible that was in the pew, and
read till it was time for service to begin. A good many people stared
rather uncivilly, but she did not seem to pay any attention to them,
though Sophie thought she blushed once or twice as she looked up and
caught some one's eyes fixed full upon her.
Sophie noticed that she read the Psalm and responses in an audible
voice, and that she paid the greatest attention to the sermon.
As they came out of church, several of the school-girls spoke to
Sophie, and Mrs. Gaylord came round at the door to shake hands with her
father. Laura Bartlett also made her way round; and, while talking to
Sophie, she contrived, as she said, "to have a good look at the bride,"
in order that she might give a description of her dress and appearance
to such of her schoolmates as attended different churches, and
therefore had not the felicity of beholding her first appearance. It
is wonderful to reflect what a talent some people have for collecting
information, and melancholy that it is so thrown away. If Laura had
turned her attention to the antiquities of Rome, for instance, she
might have rivalled the great Niebuhr himself, but her curiosity did
not extend itself greatly in the direction of books.
The next week passed away very quietly and pleasantly for Sophie. As
her mother had predicted, the time was too much broken up by visits,
for any regular occupation.
Mrs. Kennedy was all the time becoming better and better acquainted
with her daughter's disposition and acquirements. She perceived that
Sophie was a good deal spoiled by neglect and indulgence, and that she
had faults which would call forth all her patience and forbearance.
She foresaw that she must be contented with small beginnings and
long-continued efforts, but she was encouraged by seeing that
Sophie had very good qualities to begin upon. She was affectionate,
intelligent, tolerably truthful, fond of some sorts of study, and as
little selfish as could possibly be expected under her circumstances.
What selfishness she had was negative rather than positive in its
character. She was very ready to serve those about her, when it could
be done in an active way. For instance, she would run to the farthest
corner of the house to bring a book for her father; and, ten to one,
she would leave every door in her way wide open, though she knew how
much it annoyed him. She would sit for hours beside Nancy when she
had a fit of sick-headache, and do every thing she could think of to
alleviate her suffering. But she would never take the trouble to put
away her bonnet and shawl when she came home, or to overlook her own
clothes when they came up from the wash. As some one says, she was
capable of great sacrifices, but not of small ones.
"I am afraid you will have great trouble with the child!" said Mr.
Kennedy one day to his wife.
"I expected it, when I took the charge upon myself," answered Mrs.
Kennedy. "She is just at the age when children are always troublesome,
and she would naturally be more so from her peculiar circumstances."
"You must not hesitate to use authority, if necessary."
"I shall endeavor to get along without any contention," answered his
wife. "She does not seem to have any very bad faults. In fact, it is
not such a difficult matter to keep children from doing what they ought
not to do: the trouble is to make them do what they ought to do."
The next week the lessons began. Mrs. Kennedy commenced with music
lessons, arithmetic, and drawing. Sophie would gladly have got rid of
the arithmetic, but her father was very decided on that point, and
she did not like to oppose him. The first two weeks went on smoothly
and pleasantly. Mrs. Kennedy was very clear in her explanations, and
possessed great patience, and Sophie began to think she was going to
have very nice times.
But by and by she began to grow rather tired, and relaxed her efforts.
The arithmetic lessons were very carelessly studied; and if her mother
were called away, Sophie would spend her practice hour in playing,
for her own amusement, easy lessons that she had already learned. One
morning she was particularly careless and inattentive. She had a new
music lesson, and a very easy and pretty one, but she paid no attention
to it, and played so many false notes, that her mother said, "Stop
playing, Sophie!" Sophie stopped.
"What note is that in the treble? The next, and the next."
Sophie told them all correctly.
"Then why do you not play them so? You have struck them wrong every
time."
"I cannot help it," exclaimed Sophie petulantly. "I do as well as I
can. I shall never learn music, I am sure."
"Cannot you help playing C instead of D?" inquired her mother.
Sophie did not reply.
"Whether you can learn music or not, remains to be seen," continued
Mrs. Kennedy. "That is not the question now. Begin at the beginning,
and be sure you know the name of every note before you strike it."
A little awed by her mother's tone and manner, Sophie managed to get
through the lesson without any more blunders.
Then came the arithmetic. Her sum to-day was one in Compound Addition.
She understood the rule perfectly, and the sum required only patience
and care. But neither care nor patience was Sophie inclined to exercise
this day. After two or three trials, she got entirely out of humor, and
throwing the slate down on the floor, she exclaimed:
"I never can do it, and that is all about it." And she burst into a
flood of tears.
Her mother waited a few minutes, until the storm had subsided, and
then, taking up the slate, said:
"Don't you understand the rule, Sophie?"
"I understand it well enough," sobbed Sophie, disconsolately, "but I
cannot do that old sum. I never shall get it right, I know."
"What is the trouble with it? It is a long sum, I know, but not at all
difficult, and you have done several like it. But you can never do any
thing as long as you are such a baby. Take the slate and try again.
You must really do this sum before dinner, my child," she continued,
seriously, but calmly. "It requires nothing but patience, and it must
be done. I shall sit here till I see it finished."
Mrs. Kennedy said no more, but went on quietly with her work. Sophie
sat crying for some time, but as her mother took no notice of her
tears, she grew rather ashamed of them, and, finally, wiping her eyes,
she took up her slate, and in ten minutes did the sum correctly.
"It is quite right this time," said her mother, looking it over. "You
had better put away your books now, and get ready for dinner. You will
have no time to draw to-day."
Sophie found she had much better have preserved her temper, as she
gained nothing by losing it. Her mother did not seem to be even
ruffled, and she went to her room feeling very much ashamed of herself.
She had lowered herself in her own eyes and her mother's, and deprived
herself of a real enjoyment in losing her drawing lesson. She appeared
at dinner with flushed cheeks and swollen eyes, but her father did not
seem to notice them; for he laughed and talked just as usual. Before he
left the table, he said:
"I saw nurse Brown this morning, Sophie, and she said Betsey was
wondering what had become of you. I told her you had been very much
occupied, but would come and see her soon."
"Suppose We go this afternoon?" said Mrs. Kennedy to Sophie. "You know
I have never seen your little friends yet."
"If you please, mamma," said Sophie.
"Then you may ask Nancy to put up some of her nice potted chicken,
and we will take it round. A delicate appetite is often tempted by
something which is made away from home."
A little while after dinner, Mrs. Kennedy and Sophie set out on their
walk. It was a mild afternoon: the trees were now quite bare, and the
grass had begun to look brown, but the air was filled with the peculiar
sweetness of Indian summer. As they passed the school-house, several
girls were standing at the gate, among whom were Laura Bartlett, Greta
Carroll, and Harry Reed. And Mrs. Kennedy stopped for Sophie to speak
to them.
When they went on—"Sophie has been crying," remarked Laura, who as
usual had her eyes about her. "I wonder if she has had a fuss with her
stepmother already?"
"It is nothing remarkable for her to cry," said Carry Woodford. "She
often did that in school, especially over her arithmetic. I have seen
her shed any quantity of tears over a sum in fractions, which after all
she did in two or three minutes."
"I wonder if she studies at home?" continued Laura. "I think it is too
bad for her mother to make her work out of school."
"You speak as if you thought that her mother made her study for her own
pleasure and convenience, instead of for Sophie's own good," remarked
Greta. "I don't think Mrs. Kennedy can find it very amusing, to sit
down two or three hours in the morning with Sophie over scales and
exercises and little easy tunes, when she plays so splendidly herself
or to spend ever so long over arithmetic and grammar lessons."
"Why does she do it, then? She might just as well send her to school."
"No doubt she thinks it will be better for Sophie, she has been to
school so much. I am sure Sophie ought to be grateful to her for taking
so much pains with her."
"Well, I don't see why we need be so wonderfully grateful to our
teachers. They are paid for all they do, and they need not teach unless
they choose."
"I suppose then if you had the smallpox, and a doctor should save your
life, you would not feel any gratitude towards him," observed Harry
Reed. "He would get his pay for all he did."
"I am sure no money would pay Miss Warner for the pains she takes with
that poor little Anne Jenkins," said Greta; "she is both dull and
mischievous, and yet Miss Warner and Miss Lee are never weary of trying
to teach her."
"She has improved very much since she came here, though," remarked
Carry Woodford. "She is really beginning to learn something; and she
has got over that trick of rolling her eyes and twitching her mouth
when she talks. I should not wonder if she becomes about as clever as
other children, after all."
"I do not believe she will ever be very intelligent," replied Greta.
"But even if she should not, think how glad her parents will be, if she
only learns to read and write and to behave properly. Do you think,
Laura, that money will ever pay Miss Warner for the pains she takes
with her?"
"Oh no, indeed," acknowledged Laura. "I did not mean, you know, Greta,
that one ought not to be grateful at all to teachers; only not so
'very' grateful."
"I rather think you did not consider much about it, Laura. But I know a
great many girls feel just so about their teachers. They seem to take
every thing done for them just as a matter of course, and never think
of making any return; and it is something so even to their parents."
"Oh, well, Greta," said Laura, carelessly, "we cannot all be as good as
you, even if we try."
"Suppose you should try, Laura?" said Harry.
"It is quite too much trouble for me," replied Laura. "But Harry," she
added, mischievously, "why don't you try yourself? I am sure there
is room for improvement. I don't set myself up for a pattern, as
Greta does, but I never should have answered Miss Lee as you did this
morning."
Harry colored very much, but made no answer in words, though a very
angry one flashed from her eyes.
While Greta said smiling, "I assure you, Laura, I don't set up for a
pattern at all. But I don't think you really do want Harry to improve."
"Why not?"
"Because if you did, you would not try to provoke her. Besides you
don't know how much she does try."
"I am sure she does not succeed very well," persisted Laura, who seemed
to take a malicious pleasure in seeing Harry's indignation rise.
Harry turned and went into the house, without saying a word. She was
beginning to try very hard to get the better of her temper, and in such
cases as the present, she found it the best policy to get out of the
way of provocation.
"There she goes, as grand as Juno," continued Laura laughing, "and I
must go too, if I don't want to be marked. Come, Miss Pattern, it would
never do to be late, you know."
And the girls accordingly went into school.
When Mrs. Kennedy and Sophie arrived at their destination, they found
Betsey sitting up in bed, supported by pillows. She had passed a week
of comparative ease and comfort, and was very cheerful. Her mother was
seated beside her, sewing on a fine linen shirt. A bright flush of
pleasure passed over Betsey's face as they entered, and she held out
her thin hand.
"I am so glad to see you again, miss," she said. "I was almost afraid
you had forgotten me, but I suppose you have been very busy. Is this
your mamma?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Kennedy smiling. "I have been trying to come and
see you before: but you may imagine, Mrs. Hand," she continued, turning
to her, "that I have been pretty busy. It takes some time to settle
one's self in a new home."
"It does indeed, ma'am," answered Mrs. Hand, "especially for one like
you. No doubt you found every thing ready to your hands too, and that
makes a great difference. When I was married, and went home with my
husband, I had every thing to do. The woman who pretended to keep house
had neglected every thing, and the child, poor thing, had not a whole
garment to put on, nor a stocking to her foot. The first week I was
there, I knitted her two pairs of stockings."
"Red ones," said Betsey; "how well I remember. And I remember too,
mammy, how you cleaned up every thing and how different the house
looked."
"Do you recollect how I would not let you play in the water, and how
you cried over the first sewing I set you?"
"Yes, mammy, and how you made me sit still till I had finished it: I
thought you were very hard upon me then. And how you let me make the
biscuits one day: I got my hands covered with dough, and could not get
it off, and ran out in the front yard, to ask you what I should do
next."
Betsey grew quite animated over her reminiscences, and her mother
smiled to see her so gay, but the smile was followed by a sigh.
"The most I cared about growing up, since I began to think about it,
was that I might do something for you, mother. But never mind," she
continued cheerfully; "I have tried to do something, and we shall not
be long apart, and you will have little Mary. So don't cry, mother,
please."
Mrs. Hand laid down her work and left the room, while Betsey looked
after her and sighed in her turn. "Poor mammy," she said. "Miss Sophie,
you must try and comfort her when I am gone."
"The only thing you think about is leaving your mother, Betsey," said
Sophie, after a few moments' silence. "You do not seem at all afraid of
dying. I suppose it is because you are so good."
"Oh no, indeed, Miss Sophie, it is not that. I do not believe any one
is good enough, not to be afraid of dying: do you, ma'am?"
"No, Betsey," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "I told Sophie before I saw you
that I thought you must have some better reason than that. Perhaps you
will feel able to tell her what it is."
"It is because I have a Friend in heaven that loves me, and will take
care of me, Miss Sophie. I know that God is my Father, and that he sent
His dear Son, our blessed Saviour, to die and rise again for me, that I
might be saved. And I know that for His sake, God will forgive my sins,
and take me to live with Him; and by and by mammy will come too, and
then we shall all be together, mammy and father and all."
"You are sure, dear child, that God has forgiven you for Jesus Christ's
sake, and that He will hear your prayers!"
"Oh yes, ma'am," said Betsey, with animation; "he has heard me so many
times already. I cannot say I ever thought much about such things till
my father died, though he and mammy both used to teach me about God and
heaven, but somehow, when he died, he seemed to carry my heart right up
with him. We were a great deal poorer after daddy was taken away; and
when I saw how mammy worked, I felt as if I must work too. So I asked
God, night and morning, to give me strength and sense to work for mammy
and Mary, and He did."
"I have no doubt of it, my love," said Mrs. Kennedy.
Sophie listened with fixed attention; she was much interested.
"But I am afraid you are tiring yourself. Does it not hurt you to talk?"
"No, ma'am, not at all to-day. I love to talk about those times. So,
then, I began to try and take the best care I could of Mary and the
house, while mother was away at work. Mary was a very good baby, and
needed little nursing. And by and by, I thought I might get some sewing
or knitting to do too. So I went to our minister's wife—she was a good,
good lady—and told her about it, and showed her some sewing I had
done. She said she would help me all she could, and gave me some work
herself. I never told mother a word about it, till I had earned almost
ten shillings."
Sophie glanced at her mother, who had seated herself by the bedside,
and taken up Mrs. Hand's work.
Mrs. Kennedy returned the glance with a smile.
"So much for knowing how, Sophie. But what did your mother say, Betsey,
when you gave her the money?"
"She was very much surprised and pleased, ma'am, and asked me how I
came to think of it. Then I told her how I had asked God to help me,
and show me some way to work for her. After that, I did a great deal of
work. I think, Mrs. Kennedy, it is a great deal easier to do hard and
disagreeable things, when one thinks one is doing it for God."
"You have found the true philosophy of life, my child. And no doubt
the same feeling helps you to bear your suffering as patiently and
cheerfully as I am told you do. Do you ever think that you drink of the
same cup that your Saviour drank of, and are baptized with the baptism
that he was baptized withal?"
"Of suffering, do you mean, ma'am?"
"Yes, my dear."
"But my pains are nothing to His?"
"That is true, but it is great for you, and you cannot tell how much
good it will do."
"It has done me good already, I know, and some one else, too. Oh, Mrs.
Kennedy, the poor drunken man that burned me—that dropped the candle
on me, you know—he has never drank one drop since. His wife told him,
when he was sober, what he had done. And he was so shocked, and felt so
sorry, that he declared he would never taste another drop as long as he
lived, and he went and took the pledge directly. He came all the way
here to see me, yesterday, and to ask me to forgive him."
"And did you?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.
"Oh yes, ma'am," replied Betsey. "Indeed, I had nothing to forgive, for
he did not mean to do it. I expect it was harder for mother than for
me. Of course it would be, you know. But I think she has forgiven him,
for she said the Lord's Prayer with me last night. So my being burned
has done some good."
"Well, Betsey," said Mrs. Kennedy, rising and laying down the work,
now nearly completed, "I think you are happier than a great many well
people I know. I shall come and see you again, very soon, my dear."
Sophie was very quiet and thoughtful all the way home. When she
arrived, she put away her bonnet and shawl without waiting to be told
as usual, and then sat down with her arithmetic and slate to learn her
lesson for to-morrow.
"What do you think it is that makes it so hard for me to learn
arithmetic, mamma?" she asked, after working in silence a while.
"I think this is one reason, Sophie," replied her mother. "You acquire
some things much more easily than people in general, for you have a
naturally quick memory. But you think rather slowly, and you are not
much accustomed to exercise your reflective powers. So when you bring
them to bear upon your arithmetic, you are impatient of the slowness of
the operation, and at your progress in it, compared with other studies.
It is really no harder for you than for any one else, except that you
are more unused to reflection."
"I know I am, mamma; I never can sit down and think steadily."
"But, my dear, I sometimes see you sit an hour without speaking or
moving: what do you do then?"
"I don't know, mamma; I dream, I believe," said Sophie; "I think what I
would do if I had such and such things, or how I would live if I were
very rich, like Miss Eustace. I think how I would have a fine place,
and travel all over, and such things."
"A very bad way of employing your mind, or rather your time, for your
mind has not much to do with it."
Sophie looked incredulous, and her mother continued:
"I know all about it, my dear, for I had the same habit myself for
a great many years, and had to make great efforts to rid myself of
it. Tell me honestly, do you not sometimes build castles in the air
that are not so very pleasant? When any one vexes you a little, for
instance, do you not sometimes imagine a train of circumstances in
which you are very much abused, and made to endure all sorts of
hardships?"
Sophie assented silently. She was conscious that she had been doing
something of the sort that very morning.
"And do you not come out of such a reverie, feeling still more
uncomfortable, and unwilling to be pleased?"
Sophie nodded again.
"That is one bad effect of this habit of reverie," continued her
mother. "Another is, that it tends to make you impatient of every sort
of mental exertion; and that is the case, more or less, with almost
every thing which occupies the mind without exercising it. I think if
you will make an effort to break off this habit, you will find your
lessons all the easier for it."
"But, mamma, it is so pleasant to imagine one's self able to have all
that one wants, and to think of all the good one might do with so much
money. I was thinking, yesterday afternoon, that if I were as rich as
Mr. Astor, I could do so much for the poor people here. I would build
them such nice houses, like Prince Albert's model cottages, you know,
and—" Sophie paused, for she saw a smile on her mother's face.
"I heard Nancy asking you why you had not dusted the books in the
parlor, as you promised her. Was that when you were imagining all these
fine things?"
Sophie colored scarlet. In fact, she had started about her work, and
actually taken the duster in hand, but finding a paper containing an
account of the prince's model cottages, she had fallen into the reverie
aforesaid, and had not only forgotten to dust the books, but finally
went out, leaving duster and brush in the middle of the room.
Mrs. Kennedy saw she had guessed rightly, and continued:—
"You have no reason to suppose that you would do any good with Mr.
Astor's means, or even more, if you neglect the opportunities now in
your power. 'He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful
also in that which is much: and he that is unjust in the least is
unjust also in much.' What do you think would have become of Betsey and
her mother, if the latter had sat down to cry over her misfortunes, and
to imagine what a fine education she would give them, if she were only,
rich. Or suppose Betsey had spent the hours she devoted to sewing, in
thinking, 'Now if I could only sing like Jenny Lind, how nicely I could
support mother!'"
Sophie allowed that her mother was in the right as far as Betsey was
concerned, but she thought her own case very different. She took too
much pleasure in her reveries to be very willing to abandon them. But
the conversation had so much effect upon her that for once, she applied
her whole mind to her lesson in figures, and therefore found it much
easier than the preceding one had been.