LOST ON THE COMMON.
"WHY, Bertha! I've been looking for you everywhere," exclaimed her
cousin Norman, a little reproachfully, "Aunt Esther was quite in a
fidget."
It was hot, and he had been sent out on the Common, and had been
wandering about for an hour, calling and searching.
Bertha's eyes fell. She had not intended to set everybody hunting, she
had only felt miserable, and had wanted to be alone.
She loved the Common, and was always allowed to go out at the back gate
and wander about, so long as she kept in sight of home.
Norman threw himself on the grass in front of her; not that he felt
particularly friendly, but because he was tired. So they sat in
silence, till, a little rested, he raised his eyes to her woe-begone
face.
"What's the matter?" he asked, bluntly.
"I've been naughty again," said Bertha, simply.
"What about?" with more interest.
Bertha felt the difference in the tone.
"I can't get on with Aunt Esther—"
"I expect you're sometimes in fault yourself," hazarded Norman, looking
up.
"Ye-es—oh, yes, I am; but she's so sharp! She's always after me: 'do
this,' and 'do that.' Mother never used to keep on so!"
"Of course not," said Norman, briefly. He hoped Bertha was not going to
cry about her mother, because he hated people to cry.
"And then when Father comes home, I know Aunt Esther tells him tales
about me, and that makes me mad—"
"Perhaps you fancy she does, and after all she doesn't," said Norman.
Bertha shook her head. "I know it isn't nice of me to be always
thinking such things about her; but, indeed, Norman, I can't help it,
and I do feel so miserable."
The tears came now, and Norman did not so much mind, as he expected. He
was full of sympathy with his little cousin, but he did not see how to
help her.
"I s'pose there's some way out of it," he said, consideringly, "there
generally is—"
Again Bertha shook her head.
"What did you do to-day?" he asked, by way of suggesting a remedy.
Bertha brushed away her tears with her hand.
"Well," she said, "I was busy in the breakfast-room, making those
toilet mats for the missionaries, and the room was rather—"
"Snippy," suggested Norman.
"Yes—well, it was no harm; it was Saturday, and I was free to do it.
And I wanted to finish a set, because I thought if Aunt Helen came this
afternoon, I would get her to buy them—for the missionaries, you know.
But Aunt Esther said she could not have such a mess all over the place,
and began gathering my things together, and I felt cross, and begged
her to wait and let me put them up; and she went on, and my bottle of
gum got spilled between us, and went over the pink satin, and spoilt
ever such a lot."
"What a shame," said the boy, flushing.
"Yes, it was; but, oh, I flew in such a passion. I stamped about the
room, and said all the nasty things I could think of; and when I hadn't
any more words left, she just said, coldly, 'That is what you call
working for Christ, do you? You will not show your things to Aunt Helen
this afternoon, Bertha,' and left the room."
Norman turned crimson, and Bertha saw his sympathy in his face.
"And so I came out here," she said, sorrowfully. "It was quite
true—that part of it—how dreadful it was of me to be in such a temper
over His work, Norman! Now I don't know what to do. Shall I burn them
all, and never do any more, if I can't be a better girl."
Norman's brown hand was stretched out and took hold of her little one.
"Poor kiddie," he said, softly.
"What can I do, do you think?" she asked, anxiously.
"Not burn the things!" he said, decidedly. "I think—I'm not much of a
hand at good sort of talk, you know—but if we've done wrong—if we know
we have—"
Bertha nodded.
"Then mother always says we ought to ask God to forgive us, and—you
won't like me to say it—and Aunt Esther. Mother says then we can begin
again, you know. Only it's awfully hard—"
Bertha raised herself from the ground. "Yes, Norman," she said,
solemnly, "I see. I'll do it. Ask God first, then Aunt Esther. I will."