THE MOUSE.
"MISS DELIGHT, I think there must be mice in the store-room cupboards,"
said Sarah to her mistress, one morning after breakfast. "I find the
cake and biscuits crumbed and nibbled; and the crackers go away faster
than they ought I am sure. And just see here how this syrup from the
dish of plums I set away yesterday is trailed upon the shelf. Nasty
little things! If there is any thing I do hate, it is a mouse."
"You must shut Dragon into the store-room at night, and move the things
away so that he can get about on the shelves," said Aunt Delight. "It
is a long time since we have had any mice in the house. The old cat
must be growing lazy."
"I am not so sure about the mice, either," said Sarah, in a low tone.
"I am afraid Philly has been at her old tricks again. Mice would not
carry away whole slices of cake and lumps of sugar."
"Hardly," said Aunt Delight. "But I don't like to suspect Philly,—she
has done so much better lately; and I do think she is trying to be a
good girl."
"Well, we shall see," said Sarah. "I mean to keep a sharp look-out upon
her. I don't know how it is, but I never can trust her."
"Take care, Sarah," said Aunt Delight. "Remember, charity thinketh no
evil. Do not begin With a prejudice against the child."
"Well, I can't help it," said Sarah. "When I do like people, I do; and
when I don't, I don't; and that is all about it. Now, I took to Lolla,
from the first. I'll be bound you won't find any underhand sly ways
about her. But Philly has such a down kind of look."
"You must remember how differently the two children have been treated,"
replied Aunt Delight. "Lolla has never had occasion to be afraid of
any thing or anybody; but poor Philly has been a slave all her life,
and her mother before her. I expected she would make us a good deal
of trouble. You know we talked of that before she came to us, and we
agreed to have patience with her faults as long as there was a prospect
of doing her any good; and you must admit that she has improved."
Sarah observed that there was room for improvement still.
"That is the case with all of us," said Aunt Delight, dryly. "Well, say
nothing, Sarah, at present. We shall soon find out about the matter."
The next day but one, as Aunt Delight was passing through the pantry,
she heard Sarah's voice in the pantry, and looked in to see what was
the matter.
"Just see here, ma'am," said Sarah. "Last night I found the plums
all spilled on the shelf again. So I thought I would watch; and this
morning, when Philly came in to put the spoons away, I thought she was
a long time about it: so I followed her, and found her at the open
cupboard-door, with a teaspoon in her hand sticking all over with the
plum-syrup. If that is not proof, I don't know what is!" concluded
Sarah, triumphantly. "I knew very well I should catch her at her
tricks."
"I didn't never touch the plums," sobbed Philly. "I only—"
"Oh, you only—You only went 'snooping' in the closet," said Sarah,
severely. "It's no use! I caught you at it!"
"Wait a little, Sarah, if you please," said Aunt Delight, quietly. "Let
me hear Philly's own story. That is but justice. Now, Philly, tell me
all about it; and be sure you tell the truth. Don't be afraid: you
shall not be condemned unjustly. How was it?"
"I was jes puttin' away de spoons," began Philly, falling back into her
native negro dialect; but Aunt Delight interrupted her.
"Speak quite plainly, Philly, and then I shall know you think of every
word you are saying. Go on."
"I was just putting away the spoons," continued Philly, this time
pronouncing her words carefully, "and I thought the row of teaspoons
looked as if there was one gone; and I counted them, and there was; and
I began to look round for it, and I saw that cupboard-door partly open:
so I thought I would look in there, and there I found the spoon in the
dish of plums; and I was just taking it out when Sarah came in."
"A likely story, indeed!" said Sarah, with a sneer. "Didn't I put away
the dish of plums myself last night? And shouldn't I have seen it if
there had been a teaspoon in the dish? Don't tell me!"
"I can't help it," said Philly. "I found it there, and I know I didn't
put it there. That's all I know."
"Come into my room, Philly," said Aunt Delight. "I will talk to you
there."
Philly followed willingly enough. She was beginning to have great
confidence in Aunt Delight's justice as well as in her kindness. She
answered all questions readily, and did not vary at all from her first
story.
"Well, Philly, I don't know what to think," said Aunt Delight, at
length. "You have been such a good girl lately that I do not like to
believe you are telling me a story. Appearances are against you; but
that happens with innocent people, sometimes. It is a rule in law that
people are to be supposed innocent till they are proved guilty: so,
unless I see something else to condemn you, I shall say nothing more
about this affair. Get your book now, and read to me while I turn down
these glass-cloths for you to hem."
"You are the most goodest lady I ever see," said Phillis to herself, as
she went for her book. "I'd be ashamed to do any thing mean for such a
nice lady."
Every morning, besides her reading and spelling lesson, Phillis read a
chapter in the Testament, or a psalm, to Aunt Delight. She was learning
to love these Bible lessons, and often studied them over by herself.
Her lesson this morning was the thirty-seventh Psalm. She read slowly
and carefully, and at the sixth verse she paused for a moment.
"Well," said Aunt Delight, "what are you thinking of, Philly?"
"Nothing, only—sometimes it seems as though verses in the Bible were
made on purpose for people."
"Why, so they are," replied Aunt Delight. "All the verses in the Bible
are made on purpose for people; and it often does seem to us that
particular verses are made on purpose for us. I suppose they are. Do
you find any verses in this psalm which suit you at present?"
"Yes, ma'am: I did think those two last verses seemed to."
"Read them again."
Philly did so.
"You think He will make your just dealing as to the plums clear as the
noonday. Is that it?"
"If it wasn't wicked to think so," said Philly, doubtfully. "You know
you did say one day that God cared about us."
"True: so I did. Well, my child, you have as much right to take God's
promises to yourself as any one in the world. Read the next verse."
Philly hemmed her towels as well as possible, earning great praise from
Miss Delight for her neatness and quickness.
Then, much comforted, she went down into the garden, where Aunt Delight
had told her to do some weeding.
"How good she is!" she said to herself. "It a'n't that she don't find
fault sometimes; but she never does it just to be hateful, and she
always praises what I have done right, if I have been ever so naughty.
That's the kind of goodness I like."
Philly was right. Kindness without justice is not worth much. She had
rather hard times, as she would have said, all that day. Sarah, who
had never liked her, had made up her mind that the child was guilty,
and treated her accordingly. She would not allow her to go into the
pantry or store-room, watched her as a cat watches a mouse, and kept
all the time throwing out hints about thieves and liars, and people who
deceived and cheated their best friends.
It needed all Philly's philosophy and religion to boot to enable her
to bear patiently with all this; but the poor child had learned how
to bear her troubles and where to carry them. She believed that "God
really did care," because Miss Delight said so; and this day she
learned by her own experience that He did help as well as care. Three
or four times that day she escaped to her own little attic, and every
time she came down comforted.
Miss Delight expected every person of her household to repeat two
verses of Holy Scripture at morning prayers. The next morning Philly's
two verses were these from the thirty-seventh Psalm:—
"'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring
it to pass.'
"'And he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy
judgment as the noonday.'"
Something in Sarah's heart gave her a little pain just then, as if she
had been stung.
"May-be she did tell the truth, after all," said she to herself.
"Anyhow, she is an orphan child, and hasn't a friend in the world
except Miss Delight. I guess I'll wait and see before I say any more."