KIT AT HOME.
KIT MALLORY went swiftly over the high pasture till she reached the
little spring; and then taking an oblique direction, she descended till
she came to an old wooden house standing on the lowest ridge or terrace
of the hill. It had once been a roomy, comfortable farmhouse with a
well-house, sheds, and barns; but the buildings were out of repair,
and the whole place looked as if it had suffered from a long course
of neglect. Nevertheless, the stones at the back-door were white and
clean, and the windows bright; and a row of milk-pans turned up on a
shelf showed that some one in the house was neat and pains-taking.
The back-door stood open. And as Kit approached, a middle-aged woman
appeared in it, making a sign for silence. She was tall and dark, and
would have been handsome but for the look of hopeless weariness and
despondency which had settled on her face.
"Is aunt Martha bad again?" asked Kit in a whisper.
"Yes, I have had a terrible time with her all the afternoon. She has
just dropped asleep, and I hope she will not wake for a good long
while. What kept you so late?"
Kit gave a short account of herself.
"That was all right," said Symantha. "Is Miss Armstrong a nice lady?"
"She is just lovely!" answered Kit with enthusiasm.
"I hope she will be a good friend to you. You must try to learn all you
can, and make the most of your time while we are here."
"Ain't we going to stay here, then?" asked Kit in a tone of anxiety and
disappointment. "I thought uncle Phin owned this place."
"So he does—at least—yes, I suppose he does," answered Symantha with
a curious tone of hesitation, which made Kit look at her in surprise.
"But I have moved so many times, and about every time for the worse,
that I don't believe I shall ever feel settled any where. What nice
apples!" she added, as if hastening to change the conversation. "Where
did you get them?"
"Mr. Weston gave them to me, and I brought them home for aunt Martha.
Where are all the folks?"
"Pa has gone over to Oldbury after a load of lumber. And Melissa is
down at the Corners, I suppose: I haven't seen her since morning. She
always goes away if she can, you know, when ma gets one of her bad
times; and perhaps it is just as well."
"How tired you look!" said Kit. She hesitated a moment; and then,
postponing a plan she had meant to put in execution as soon as she
reached home, she added, "You lie down and rest, and let me get the
supper. I can do it as well as not."
"Well, you may if you like," replied Symantha. "You are a good little
thing, Kit. I don't know what I should do without you sometimes." As
she spoke, her face softened; and she bent down and kissed Kit, who
returned the embrace with interest.
"I'm sure I don't know what I should do without you," said she. "If it
wasn't for you, I'd run away and seek my fortune."
"Hush," said Symantha sharply. "Don't ever let father hear you say such
a thing as that: I don't know what he would do to you. Yes, you may get
the supper ready, and I will rest till milking-time."
Left to herself, Kit went about her work, doing every thing with
marvellous quickness and quietness. Just as she had finished her
preparations, she heard the sound of wheels and horses' feet; and
presently a man entered the back kitchen. Kit made a sign for silence.
"Where's Symantha?" was the first question.
"She's lying down. Please don't make such a noise, uncle Phin: aunt
Martha has just gone to sleep."
"Has she had a bad time?"
Kit nodded.
"Where's Melissa?"
"I don't know; I haven't seen her. Symantha says she has gone to the
Corners."
"I'll teach her to run off and leave all the work for her sister,"
muttered Phin Mallory to himself. And then aloud, "Here, child, here's
a reader and spelling-book for you. Halloo, what's that?"
"A picture-paper, I guess," said Kit; "and a little book," she added,
taking out of the parcel an illustrated Sunday school paper, and a copy
of that time-honored tract, "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain," with a
pretty woodcut on the cover.
Mr. Sandford at Oldbury was fond of this method of sowing seed, and
seldom sold a book or parcel of books without putting in some similar
document to that which Kit held in her hand.
"What stuff is that?" said Phin. "I'll teach old Sandford to be sending
his rubbish into my house." He made a step toward the stove as he
spoke, as if to throw the papers into the fire.
"Oh, please don't burn them up," entreated Kit, holding his hand. "I
don't hardly ever see a picture, and these are so pretty. Please let me
have them."
Phin still held the papers over the fire, but something in the
pleading, upturned face seemed to move him, for he put them into her
hand.
"Here, child, take them, then. You don't see many pretty things, that's
a fact. There, put the supper on the table; I'll be back in a minute."
Kit carried her prizes off in triumph to her own little room up-stairs,
and hid them away till she should have leisure to examine them. Then
she hastened to finish her supper preparations, and had a comfortable
meal ready on the table when Phin returned.
He was a lithe, alert little man, looking as if he had seen some
hard times and some dissipation. And there was a watchful, furtive
expression in his face, not pleasant to see.
"So you got beat out," said he to Symantha, as she appeared and took
her seat at the table. "It was too bad in Melissa to run off and leave
you with all the work. I'll tell her what I think about it when she
comes home."
"She is just as well out of the way when ma has one of her bad times,"
replied Symantha. "But I don't see how any one can like to go visiting
so, forever. I like to let other folks alone, and have them let me
alone."
"Yes, you and pa would like to shut me up from one year's end to
another," said Melissa, speaking for herself, as she came into the
room with her hat on. "It has always been just so. But I'm not going
to stand it. I like company, and I'm going to have it, so there!— Kit,
take my things up-stairs, and get me a chair."
"Sit still, Kit," said her father. "You just wait on yourself, my girl.
Kit has been at work while you have been at play."
Melissa muttered something, but it seemed as if she did not care to
provoke a dispute. She threw her hat and shawl into a corner, and took
a seat at the table.
"We're going to have new neighbors at the stone house," said she after
a little silence, "some people from New York,—Van Zandt, or some such
name.
"It was a Van Zandt that owned it before," remarked Symantha.
"Yes; he has left it to some old lady in New York, and she is going to
have it all fixed up for a summer house. She has got no end of money,
and is going to bring her horses and servants and carriages, and some
young ladies, from New York; so we shall have quite a gay time."
"I don't see how 'we' shall have much to do with it," said Symantha. "I
don't suppose you mean to go and call on them, do you?"
"Why not?" asked Melissa. "I should just like to know."
"Because I say you sha'n't, and that's enough!" exclaimed her father,
striking the table with his hand so as to make all the dishes rattle.
"I won't have you go near them, do you hear? Not one of them. You mind
me, too, Kit: don't you go near the house."
"Don't, pa; you will wake mother," said Symantha.
"Dear me, what a fuss about nothing!" said Melissa. "One would think
pa thought these people had the small-pox, or that he was afraid they
would find out something."
Phin gave his daughter such a menacing glance that she evidently
thought it better to say no more, and the meal was finished in silence.
Kit washed the dishes, brought in wood, and arranged matters for the
next morning. By that time it was dark, and she was weary enough to go
to bed.
Tired as she was, she did not forget to take out the card Miss
Armstrong had given her, and read over the little prayer. She stood for
a moment after she had finished, as if thinking, and then said, half
aloud,—
"Please, our Father in heaven, I should like to have a Bible."
Then she crept into bed, and was asleep in a minute.
The next morning Kit was up early, so early that the sun was only just
gilding the very top of Blue Mountain. Nobody else was stirring in the
house. It was a good time to put her plan into execution.
There was a large, high garret to the old house, in which was stored
the-accumulated rubbish of a hundred years. Here was a tall eight-day
clock, the case of which would have thrown a collector into ecstasies,
side by side with a broken and disused loom; there, a shelf full of
bottles and more or less disabled crockery. A little room was roughly
partitioned off at one end, and made a famous playing-place on a rainy
day. It was in this garret that Kit had found her precious fragment of
the "Pilgrim's Progress" lying on the top of a box full of old books
and papers. It had occurred to her that in this same box she might
possibly find a Bible.
She took out the volumes one by one, and looked at the titles. They
were mostly old books of theology and collections of sermons; but there
were two or three volumes of travels and memoirs, which looked, Kit
thought, as though they might be interesting, and she laid them aside
for future consideration. At last, near the bottom of the box, she
found a small volume handsomely bound and closely printed. She looked
at the title page.
"The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."
Was that the same as the Bible? Kit thought so, but she was not sure.
"I'll take it to school, and show it to Miss Armstrong. Anyhow, it
tells about 'Him.' What is this, I wonder? Never mind, I can't look at
it now."
Kit brushed the dust from her dress, washed her face and hands, and sat
down to examine her new treasure. The first chapter seemed to be all
hard names, so she opened about the middle of the book, and read about
the shepherds who were watching their flocks by night, and were sent
by the angels to find the babe lying in the manger, who was Christ the
Lord. She read slowly, and had to spell some words; but the story lost
nothing of its force by that.
"The very one Miss Armstrong was talking about," said Kit. "How
strange! If he was a little baby once, and grew up into a man
afterward, there must have been a time when he was just as old as I am
now."
Kit had no time to follow out her meditations. A call from below
summoned her.
"You can't go to school to-day," was the salutation which met her as
she entered the kitchen. "Symantha's sick, or thinks she is, and I want
you to help me."
"Oh, dear! And I did want to go so much!" said Kit. "Can't you do
without me, Melissa? I hate to be so irregular."
"Let her go, Melissa," said Symantha's voice from the little bedroom.
"I sha'n't want any thing. I dare say I shall be able to get up
presently; it is only one of my dizzy headaches."
"Yes, that is very likely,—that she is going to school, leaving me
with you and ma to wait on, and all the work to do. I don't believe pa
will let her go, anyway, when he finds out about Miss Armstrong. They
say she is a regular Methodist, has prayers in school, and teaches the
children out of the Bible. I mean to tell pa about it; and then he
won't let you to at all, Miss Kit, and serve you right too."
Kit was used to Melissa's tongue, and generally gave her back her sharp
words with interest. But the prospect of losing her precious schooling
and the society of her new friend was too dreadful, and she burst into
tears.
"Hush, Kit; don't cry," said Symantha, raising her head, but obliged to
drop it again. "Pa won't take you out of school. Oh, my head!"
"Is it so very bad?" asked Kit, forgetting her own trouble for the
moment. "Can't I do any thing for you?"
"You may look in the front-room cupboard, and see if you can find the
alcohol bottle," said Symantha, pressing her hand over her eyes. "I had
it up there, I know."
Kit sped up-stairs, and found the bottle. As she passed the door of
her own little room, she remembered her prayer of last night, and also
that she had forgotten her promise to say one in the morning. "What a
shame!" she said to herself. "And when He was so good, and gave me the
Testament."
She went into her room, shut the door, and reverently repeated her
little verse,—
"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity;
Suffer me to come to Thee."
"Jesus! That is the very one I was reading about,—that very one that
was a little baby. I wonder if He ever had to do things he didn't
like. Perhaps He had to stay at home sometimes to help His mother, but
I don't believe she was one bit like Melissa. But they were poor, I
guess, and He must have had a great deal of trouble in His life, so He
knows all about it. Perhaps He would like it if I was good-natured, and
staid at home."
Kit had not been gone ten minutes when she came back with the bottle,
and set herself to bathe Symantha's head and brush her hair. But in
that ten minutes a great, change had come over her. She had entered
into a new life. The little untaught, ignorant heathen had found her
Saviour, had entered into conscious relations with Him, and made a
sacrifice for Him. The little seed dropped by a skilful sower into her
heart had taken root and sprung up. The plant was young and tender as
yet, one would say, easily crushed by a careless foot, or nibbled off
by some passing animal; but ONE was watching over it who is greater
than all the changes and chances of this mortal life, and who makes
them all work together for good to them that love Him.
Kit said no more about going to school. She went into her aunt's room,
washed her face and hands, and coaxed her to drink a cup of coffee and
eat a bit of toast. Mrs. Mallory must once have been a beautiful woman,
judging by her regular features and still-fair complexion, but her hair
was streaked with gray, her large dark-blue eyes, very much like Kit's
in shape and color, were wild and wandering, and she had a despairing,
anxious expression, pitiful to see.
"There, that is real good," said Kit, speaking as one would to a sick
and wayward child. "Now you shall have a nice apple."
She produced one of the apples she had brought from Mr. Weston's, and
the poor woman took it with some show of pleasure. Something about Kit
seemed to arrest her attention, for she held the child's hand, and
looked earnestly into her face.
"Who are you, little girl? Haven't I seen you somewhere?"
"Why, yes, aunt Martha. I am Kit. You remember Kit, don't you?"
Mrs. Mallory gazed at her a moment with a gleam of intelligence, and
then, dropping her hand, sank back on her pillow.
"I don't know," said she. "It all goes away from me. Every thing went
when they took Him away."
"Well, never mind," said Kit soothingly. "Eat the nice apple, and by
and by you shall have another."
Seeing her aunt's attention diverted for the moment, Kit slipped from
the room.
Melissa was by this time in a better humor. Her moods were very much
the result of her bodily feelings; and she felt better, now that she
had made her coffee as strong as she liked it, and eaten her breakfast.
Kit waited on Symantha, and brushed her hair softly till she fell
asleep, got her aunt up and dressed her, and brought her some flowers
from the neglected garden. The last Mrs. Mallory had been fond of
flowers, and a few of the hardy perennials she had planted still
struggled for existence; while in one corner, the dear old-fashioned
rose of May, neglected and forgotten now, opened its pretty pointed
buds. Mrs. Mallory loved flowers, and a nosegay would keep her quiet
and amused longer than any thing else. Certainly Kit did her full
share of the work, and more; for Melissa was an accomplished "shirk,"
and if she did not work herself, she was the cause of work in others.
Symantha's nap carried off her headache, and she was able to get up to
dinner.
"Halloo, what are you doing here?" asked Phin as he came in and found
Kit dishing up the dinner. "I thought you took your dinner to school."
"I didn't go to school," answered Kit, busily stirring her gravy. "I
staid at home to help Melissa."
"Then don't do it again, do you hear?" said her uncle angrily. "I am
not going to have you staying out of school for every little thing."
"I didn't want to stay, I'm sure," returned Kit. And then, as some
thought crossed her mind, she added in a gentler tone, "Symantha
couldn't sit up, and Melissa wanted me to help her, so I did."
"It wasn't her fault," added Symantha: "Melissa kept her. Kit was very
good-natured about it, I must say."
"Good-natured or not, it isn't to happen again.—Do you hear, Melissa?"
"Hear what?" asked Melissa from the next room. "I don't know what you
are talking about."
"Then I'll make you know," said her father. "I say you are not to keep
the child at home from school for any thing and every thing. I want her
to go every day this summer. I've taught school myself, and I know what
a nuisance it is to a teacher to have scholars so irregular. Mind, I
won't have it happen again."
"Oh, of course you won't," replied Melissa sulkily: "you care for every
one more than you do for me. Never mind, I am not going to be made a
slave of forever. I shall look out for myself some day."
"You do that now pretty well," said Symantha.
No answer was returned, and the family sat down to dinner.
"Did you really keep school once, uncle Phin?" asked Kit.
"Yes," replied her uncle, "when I was a young man, I taught one winter
in that very red schoolhouse. I was a good scholar once, thanks to my
mother."
"Was your mother a nice woman?" asked Kit, who was always hungry for
any thing like a story.
"That she was,—as good a woman as ever breathed," replied Phin, his
hard face softening a little. "She had a great many notions that I
don't believe in, but she was just as good as they make."
"What a pity her grand-daughters are not like her!" said Melissa
sarcastically.
"It is a pity," replied her father dryly.
"Perhaps Kit may take after her if she keeps on going to school,"
continued Melissa. "Miss Armstrong is very pious, teaches the
children verses out of the Bible, and talks to them like a Methodist
class-leader."
"Maybe she will have to stop that some day," said her father. "But,
anyhow, the red schoolhouse is the only one near here, and Kit shall go
to school if the teacher talks all through the Old Testament, and the
New Testament too."
"Am I to go to school this afternoon?" asked Kit as Phin rose from the
table.
"It is hardly worth while, I guess: you won't more than get there
before school is out. However, you can do as you like," said Phin.
Kit knew she should be in time for at least a part of the afternoon
session, so she made herself tidy, and skipped away rejoicing, her
precious little Testament safe in her pocket. She entered school
somewhat out of breath, and slipped into her seat as quietly as
possible.
"You are late, Kitty, and you were away this morning," said Miss
Armstrong. "How does that happen?"
"Melissa kept me at home to help do the work," answered Kit. "Symantha
had one of her sick headaches, and couldn't sit up a minute. But uncle
Phin says I mustn't do it again. He says it is bad for me and bad for
the teacher."
"How impudent she is, to answer Miss Armstrong so!" thought Selina. An
undefined feeling of anger at Kit had been lurking in her mind ever
since the day before, and she was glad to find something to justify it.
Miss Armstrong, however, did not seem the least disturbed.
"Your uncle is right," said she: "irregular and tardy scholars hurt
both themselves and the school. Now you may take your book, and study
your spelling and reading lessons."
It was with a feeling of satisfaction that Kit produced her nice new
reader and spelling-book. The Red Hill district stuck to Webster's
spelling-book, which was, perhaps, one reason why most of the children
really learned to spell. The day before, Kit had been obliged to borrow
her neighbor's books, which did not please her at all, for she had an
independent spirit. She was tempted to look at all the pictures, and
read all the stories, but she reflected that she could do that as well
after school, and applied herself to her lesson with such zeal that she
went up several places in the spelling-class. At recess, she brought
her books to Miss Armstrong.
"Please, Miss Armstrong, will you write my name in my new books?"
"Certainly, my dear. What shall I write?"
Kit's face darkened a little. "That's just the trouble," said she. "I
hate 'Keturah,' and I don't believe it is my name either."
"Suppose we write it 'Kitty,'" said Miss Armstrong: "that is short for
Catherine, buy it will do quite as well for Keturah. But you should not
hate the name of Keturah, my dear. She was a great lady, I suppose; at
least, she was the wife of a very great man."
"Was she?" asked Kit, much interested.
"Yes: she was the second wife of Abraham, one of the most distinguished
men that ever lived. Abraham was called the friend of God, and talked
with Him face to face. So you see Keturah is not a bad name, after all."
"I shall like it better, now I know about it; but I don't believe it is
my right name, for all that," said Kit. "But please, Miss Armstrong,
may I ask you about something else?"
"After school," said Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I suppose, Kit, it never
occurs to you children to think that a teacher likes her recess, as
well as her scholars."
"I am real sorry I bothered you," said Kit penitently. "I won't say
another word."
And, putting her books away, she went out to the playground, where a
lively game was in progress.
"Here is Kit; she'll be it, I know!" exclaimed Sarah Leet. "You will,
won't you, Kit?"
"Of course, when I know what you are playing," answered Kit. "What do
you want me to do?"
"Oh, to be king. We are playing king's land; and it is Selina's turn,
but she won't."
"I will, and I'll catch you too," said Kit, darting after Sarah, and
catching her on the verge of her own territory. "There, I'll let you
off, because it was not quite fair to catch you before you had time to
get off.—Now, girls, look out for yourselves."
"What a nice, good-natured little thing she is, after all!" said Faith
Fletcher as Kit darted hither and thither, always on the watch, and
turning up where she was least expected.
"Oh, yes, very nice indeed!" said Selina, to whom the remark was
addressed. "I wonder how long it will last."
"Well, I don't see how you can wish to spite the poor little thing so,"
said Sarah. "I should think you would have some feeling for her, trying
so hard to make something of herself."
"I don't spite her, and you have no business to say so," said Selina
angrily.
"Well, that's the way it looks to me. When a person never can say a
good word for another, and never likes to hear any one else do it, it
looks a good deal like spite. However, it is no business of mine.—I'm
on the king's land; the king—Ah, you little spirit! I might have known
you would catch me. There is the bell, so I don't care."
The verse Miss Armstrong gave the children that evening was rather a
long one,—
"God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting
life" (St. John iii. 16).
She asked a few questions, which were answered intelligently, even by
the little children, though the Fletcher twins could not tell where
Christ was born.
"Sister is so busy, she has hardly any time to teach them," said Faith
apologetically, after school, "but I thought they knew that."
"Cannot you teach them, Faith? Have you no time to tell these little
ones about the Saviour who died for them?"
"They go to Sunday school always," said Faith, "every Sunday unless it
is bad weather."
"Sunday schools are very good things, but they can never take the place
of home teaching. Don't you help them learn their lessons?"
"There is always so much to do Sundays and Saturdays," answered Faith.
And then she added frankly, "I guess the truth is, I never thought of
it, but I'll try to get time before next Sunday."
"Do," said Miss Armstrong; "and Faith, when you go to bed, read the
parable of the sower, and remember that the cares of this world choke
the Word, and make it unfruitful, quite as often and quite as surely as
the deceitfulness of riches. Good-night, my child.—Now, Kitty, what can
I do for you?"
"Please, Miss Armstrong, is the New Testament part of the Bible?" asked
Kit.
"Certainly, my dear, and a very important part. It contains the history
of our Lord Jesus Christ. Why?"
"I was looking for a Bible up in the garret, and I found this,"
answered Kit, producing her treasure. "I read some in it this morning
about Mary and Joseph, and the baby that was Christ the Lord. Was He
really?"
"Really and truly, Kitty,—as really and truly as that He now sits at
the right hand of God the Father, ready to hear and help us in all our
troubles."
"That is very strange," said Kit. "But I think it is lovely, too,"
she added, her eyes lighting up with their peculiar sapphire-like
brilliancy. "Isn't it wonderful to think that He knows all about us?"
"The more you know of the matter, the more strange and lovely it will
appear to you, my dear. Now, let me advise you to begin here at this
second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, and read this book through, and
at the same time ask God to teach you to understand it."
"And will He?"
"Yes: He has promised He will, and He always keeps His word."
"I'm sure I'm glad of it," said Kit in her matter-of-fact way; "because
I don't have any help only what you give me. I can't go to church and
Sunday school, like the others."
"If you could, my dear, if you had all the human helps in the world,
you would need God's help just as much. The most learned man in the
world needs it just as much as you do. Now, see here; I have something
else for you. Here is a card with the Lord's Prayer printed on it in
nice plain letters; I want you to take it and learn it, so you can say
it with the others. It is in your Testament too."
"Is it called the Lord's Prayer because He made it?" asked Kit.
"Yes, for that very reason."
"Here is something else printed on the card, 'The Apostles' Creed,'"
said Kit, spelling out the word with some trouble. "What is that?"
"That is what all Christians believe,—a kind of summing-up of all the
truths of the Bible," answered Miss Armstrong. "Learn that too. Suppose
you read it over to me."
"I have heard that somewhere, I know," said Kit when she had finished
reading the Creed. "Seems to me it was in a church out West, but I
can't tell exactly. I guess it was in the Indian church. But, Miss
Armstrong, I shall have to learn these in school, I guess."
"Very well; we will make time for them. Now I must not keep poor Selina
waiting any longer. Good-night, my dear, and God bless you!"