THE OLD PEDDLER--BITTER WORDS--THE MEEK REPLY--THE EFFECT--ACTING A
PART--SOFTER FEELINGS--THE DEATH-SCENE--THE DAY OF SMALL
THINGS--SIMPLE CHRISTIAN COURTESY.
"I know," said Fanny Brighton, "that there is not a word of truth in
what you say. Peddlers are always liars. This ring is nothing but
brass, and would turn black with a week's wearing."
"I bought it for gold," meekly replied the old man, as he placed his
heavy box upon the ground, and wiped the large drops of sweat from his
wrinkled face.
"What else have you?" inquired Alice, as she turned over a box of
thimbles, and pulled out a large handkerchief. "What a splendid thing!"
said Alice; but at the same time she winked at Fanny, and laughed.
[Illustration: THE GIRLS AND THE PEDDLER.]
"Half cotton," said Fanny; "and now pray tell me when you take time to
split your skeins of silk."
"I never do such a thing!" said the old man, with some spirit.
"Perhaps not," was the reply; "I suppose your profits are enough to
hire it done; but here is a shawl,--what is the price of it?"
"Five dollars, miss; and a good bargain at that." "Five dollars! O
what a cheat!" and Fanny laid the shawl, all unfolded, upon the grass,
where scissors, needles, buttons, tape, pins, &c., lay strewed in wild
confusion. Once more the poor man wiped his forehead, and kept his
patience. It is bad policy for the poor to lose their patience.
"There comes Mary Palmer, and the missionary of Appledale," said Fanny.
"Mr. Cotting will have to give up his office, or take Miss Lindsay as
colleague."
Fanny knew that Emma was near enough to hear these remarks, but she did
not know for what intent the feeble girl had taxed her strength in
walking so far to see her.
The old peddler was now sadly putting his things back into his box; and
Fanny, looking at him a moment, felt the injustice of causing him so
much trouble for nothing: so she said to him, "Wait a moment--I will
take some of your knickknacks, though they are not worth buying;" and
she put into his hand a bill to pay for some articles which she hastily
selected.
The old man thanked her, and his hand trembled as he gave her the
change. Then he took up his heavy box, and Emma handed him the straps
which fastened it upon his shoulders.
"Is it very heavy?" she asked.
"Yes," was the reply, "it is; but I am used to heavy burdens."
"Well, the burden and heat of your life's day is almost over," said
Emma, as, assisted by Mary, she drew the strap firmly into the buckle.
"Then, sir, if you are a Christian, you will _rest_."
"I know it," said the old man; "I know it, child:" and he looked at
Emma, as though she had given him something better than silver or gold.
"Call at the large house, among the apple-trees," said Emma, "and tell
the lady that her daughter sent you."
All this time Fanny stood as if counting her money, while the old
peddler went along.
"He has cheated himself in making change," said she; "I owe him a
quarter more."
"Never mind," said Alice; "you paid enough for the things, and that is
clear gain."
Fanny paid no attention to Alice, but ran after the old man, and gave
him all his due.
Emma saw this; and the charity in her heart which "rejoiceth not in
iniquity, but in the truth," exulted as one that findeth great spoil.
She forgot the bitter remark which Fanny had made respecting herself;
forgot all, except the one joyful thing that Fanny was not wholly
selfish.
"We walked over to see you for a little while," said Mary, as Fanny
came back; and Emma was far from feeling it a rudeness, though Fanny
did not say, "I am glad to see you." She, however, invited them into
the house where her grandfather and grandmother lived--for Fanny was an
orphan.
Emma was very tired, and Fanny brought a pillow, which she placed upon
the old-fashioned lounge, and asked her if she would like to lie down.
She saw that Emma was pale, and this little act of kindness was
prompted by a momentary feeling of pity: yet Fanny was ashamed of this
kindness, and afraid that Mary and Alice would think her anxious to
show Miss Lindsay particular attention; so putting on her old
"care-for-nobody airs," she said, "Don't _you_ undertake to faint, Mary
Palmer. We country girls are neither genteel nor sentimental enough for
that."
"And not feeble enough, I hope," replied Emma. "You have much to be
thankful for, and so have I; for if it please God to deprive us of
health, he will not leave us comfortless--not if we trust in him."
Fanny was not naturally a hardhearted girl. Her aged grandparents had
done much toward making her what she was. Left to them when she was but
two years of age, Fanny found herself left also to the full sway of
every selfish passion and desire. The old people believed from their
hearts that such another child never lived--so bright, so witty, so
smart, and fearless. They talked and laughed over her sayings in her
presence, and, in the blindness of their fond affection, saw not that
the child was impudent, even to themselves; yet there was a fountain of
purer water in that young heart, though self-love was rapidly drying it
up. Emma, however, had that day discovered a bright drop from that
better fountain, and she believed that the wasted streams of affection
might be unsealed, even in Fanny's heart; and the rude girl herself
wondered at the feelings which came over her, as Emma replied so meekly
to her unkind remark. "I did not know that you were out of health,"
said Fanny; and both Mary and Alice were surprised at the tone of her
voice and the expression of her countenance. She arose too, propped the
pillow under Emma's head, and begged to know if she could do anything
for her.
"Nothing," said Emma; "only love me: if you can do that, Fanny, I shall
feel better."
Fanny tried to laugh, though she felt more like crying. "I am not much
like other people," said she; "and those who want to have anything to
do with me, must take me as I am."
"O yes," replied Emma; "if the Saviour does not refuse to take us just
as we are, I am sure we ought to receive others in the same way, and
love them too, even as he has loved us."
Very pleasantly did that summer afternoon pass away. Emma, after she
had rested awhile, thought of going home; but Fanny entreated her to
stay. She wanted to show her the bee-house, her grandfather's new
beehive, the flower-garden, and many other things. Mary dearly loved to
be near Emma; but this good little girl possessed the very best kind of
courtesy, because it was the fruit of a pure loving heart--that kind of
heart always forgetting its own wishes, in gratifying the wishes of
another. Mary was always happy, but it was a sweet reflex happiness.
She loved Emma, and dearly loved to hear her talk; but she did not
claim the right of keeping close to her side. She sometimes lingered
far behind, as Fanny and Emma walked arm-in-arm; but there was neither
envy nor jealousy in this. She knew that Fanny was ashamed of being
kind and affectionate, and she thought it best that they should be left
to themselves; so she kept with Alice, and tried to do her good.
That night, as the sun went down, Fanny might have been seen standing
at the door, where she had bid Mary and Emma good-night. Alice was
preparing to go, but Fanny seemed quite forgetful of her. She was still
looking far down the road, where Mary and Emma, with an arm around each
other's waist, were walking slowly along. Alice prided herself on being
more genteel in her manners than was Fanny Brighton; but she had not
Mary Palmer's self-forgetting courtesy. All the afternoon she had felt
vexed, because she imagined that but little notice had been taken of
herself; and now, as Fanny stood so absent-minded, picking a rose to
pieces, as her eyes wandered far away, Alice hurriedly put on her
bonnet, and said, in a tone of pique, "Good-night, Miss Brighton; I
suppose you would like now to cut acquaintance with me."
"Nonsense," said Fanny. "Wait a moment, I am going a little way with
you;" and as they walked along, Fanny tried to be herself again.
"There comes Graffam," said she: "now I hope that he is drunk; if so,
we will make him tell about the times when he was major."
But in this Fanny was disappointed. Soberly, but sadly, the poor man of
the plain came along, and shrunk from the gaze of those merry girls.
"O," said Fanny, "Uncle Pete is not tipsy; so we shall not hear from
the major to-night."
Poor Graffam passed them quickly, for he heard this remark; and a
deeper shade of gloom came over him. "What is the use of this dreadful
struggle?" thought he. "What suffering this self-denial has cost me!
and yet what is gained? Nothing, but to know that I am ridiculed and
despised."
"It is the first time," said Fanny to herself, as she parted with Alice
that night--"the first time that I have ever acted a part: but I would
not have her suspect my feelings; and why do I feel so?"
Thus thought Fanny, as she sat down upon a rock by the roadside, and
could not keep back the tears which came from a heart never so sad
before. And why so sad? Fanny had been, for a few hours, in close
converse with one who every day was becoming more and more meet for an
inheritance with the saints in light. She had ridiculed and set at
defiance the most common rules of politeness; but what was she to do
with the self-forgetting, affectionate courtesy which she had seen, not
forced nor constrained, but beaming forth so sweetly, so naturally,
from those young disciples of Christ? Fanny felt that, however
deceitful the world's polite intercourse might be, _this_ was
holy:--and how can sin approach purity without fear and trembling? She
felt this mysterious fear. The reckless girl, whose highest boast had
always been that she feared nothing, now trembled, as in imagination
she changed places with Emma, and stood where she saw her
standing,--upon the brink of the tomb.
It was on this evening that Emma was summoned to her mother's room. She
found her mother sitting alone with Martha. There was no light there
save moonlight, and Emma was glad, for she knew that her own
countenance was deathly; and she had known that for weeks her mother
had watched her narrowly.
"Emma, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, "you understand the reason of my
coming to this place--that it was solely on your account."
"Yes, mamma," said Emma.
"I have invited some of the gayest of our young friends," continued
Mrs. Lindsay, "to keep us company; and all this because I wanted you to
make the most of being in the country. I have them here, my love, to
talk, to ride, to run, and walk with you. This was the advice of your
physician. He said that you would soon become healthy and happy,
provided his directions were faithfully followed: but they are not; and
how can we expect these favorable results? You neither ride nor walk
with suitable company; not that I care much about your present
associations. If they are conducive to health, that is sufficient: but
I have reason to think, dear, that you spend a great part of your time
alone--that you go into the woods, not with your gay young friends (as
the doctor requires) to run and have a good frolic, but to sit down and
read. Is it not so?"
"Yes, mamma," said Emma, "it is so. I cannot run now, and I get very
tired in walking only a short distance; but it _rests_ me, dear mother,
to read the Bible."
"But how can I have you go away alone to read your Bible, and think
sadly of--being so weak?" asked her mother.
"Not sadly," replied Emma; "I do not think sadly, mother, for all the
sadness is gone; and if I have not become healthy, I certainly have
become happy, very happy, since we came to Appledale. It is true that I
see a great deal to be done now, and wish sometimes that those who have
the prospect of years before them would undertake this work."
"I am glad that you mentioned this," said Mrs. Lindsay; "you have
imbibed some of Dora's strange notions, my dear, about living for
others. You may be assured, Emma, that I have not sacrificed so much
for any object save that of your health. I did not leave the society of
the refined and intelligent for the sake of benefiting the rude and
ignorant; and I would have you remember what _was_ my object. You have
nothing to do with this community only with a view to your health. If
such society amuses you, mingle with it freely, but waste no thoughts
upon the people here. They have always taken care of themselves, and
can do this still without any help from little Emma Lindsay."
This the mother said playfully, as she kissed her cheek, and added: "I
did not give you a fashionable education, my dear; but it was not
because I intended you for a missionary."
"My heavenly Father may have intended this," replied Emma; "and you
would not oppose Him, mother, for he has purchased me with a great
price. We may be unwilling to make the smallest sacrifice for our
fellow-creatures, yet God gave his only Son a sacrifice for us."
"How that child talks," said Mrs. Lindsay, bursting into tears as Emma
left the room.
"And yet," replied Martha, "if we cannot save her, mother, you would
rather that she should be as she is."
The mother made no reply, for she knew not what to say.
Emma's first summer and winter at Appledale had passed away. It was a
beautiful morning in May; Martha Lindsay was sitting beside a low couch
where her young sister was sleeping so sweetly, so gently, that she had
more than once placed her cheek close to those parted lips fearing that
the breath was gone. Dora was in her little room adjoining Emma's, and
with hands uplifted in prayer, was asking this one thing of the Lord,
that as in life so in death, Emma might glorify him. Mrs. Lindsay was
pacing the floor in her own chamber, now weeping as if her heart would
break, and now striving in this hour of deep distress, to do as Emma
had long entreated her to do, namely, to come weary and heavy laden to
Him who in no wise will cast us out. Mr. Graffam was at work in the
garden; but his eye, now clear and intelligent, often rested on the
chamber windows where the curtains were folded so close and solemnly.
Susan Sliver had watched with Emma many a night, and now she had
retired for a few moments while Emma slept. Susan no longer sighed for
Olivet and Kedron, for in a Christian's earnest daily work she had
found places equally sacred.
"I have come to hear thy dying testimony, Emma," said friend Sliver, as
drawing his broad-brimmed hat more closely over his eyes, the old man
took his seat beside the bed.
Emma smiled feebly. "Are any more of my friends here?" she asked.
"Fanny Brighton is in the keeping-room," said Martha.
"Call her," whispered Emma; and in a few moments Fanny was kneeling
beside the bed sobbing violently, while Emma pressed her hand, but
could not speak. But there was a bright triumphant smile upon her face
as Mary Palmer came in; and Mary smiled too through her tears. She had
spent many a day with Emma since that first summer at Appledale; and
now, though a little girl, and a young Christian, she felt somewhat as
did Elisha when he awaited the horsemen and chariot which were coming
for Elijah.
Emma looked around the room and stretched her hand toward her mother,
who had just entered with Dora. Mrs. Lindsay took that cold hand into
her own, and then Emma repeated I Cor. xiii, 13, "And now abideth
faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is
charity."
Emma's breath grew shorter, but she was able to add a verse which she
had often read in Dora's hymn book:--
"This is the grace must live and sing
When faith and hope shall cease,
And sound from every joyful string
Through all the realms of bliss."
These were the last audible words uttered by Emma. When another morning
came it found her cold and silent, dressed for the grave. The spring
blossoms breathed their sweet fragrance into her open window, but Emma
was gone--gone to the land of unfading bloom; yet her life, short and
beautiful as the spring, had left in passing a more enduring fragrance
than that of early blossom and flower.
Little by little does the husbandman cast the precious seed into the
earth, and drop by drop comes the genial shower upon the green herb,
yet who does not despise the day of small things? Young, feeble
Christian, the world will never do thee justice, for in the great war
of mighty deeds thy meek, noiseless charity is unheard and forgotten;
but fear not, God keeps his own jewels. Do what thou canst, and thus
provide for thyself "a treasure in the heavens that faileth not."
There are some things spoken of in the town where Emma died, things not
wholly forgotten, but far back in the distance of years. It is said
that Mr. Graffam, who is now a Church-member and a town officer, was
once a complete sot, living in a log-hut upon the plain. So much for
the temperance reform. It is said, too, that the pious, charitable old
lady, Mrs. Lindsay, and her good daughter Martha, now living at
Appledale, were once very thoughtless, fashionable people; that the
gentle, amiable Mrs. Boyd was, when a girl and living with her
grandparents, one of the rudest and most reckless creatures living;
that Susan and Margaret Sliver, now earnest, efficient co-operaters in
every good cause, were once vain, frivolous, and almost hopelessly
sentimental. Many such things are said; but there are but few who trace
the changes that have taken place in those characters to their proper
cause. We think, however, that if these persons could express what
their secret hearts feel, they would ascribe the changes they have
experienced to the grace of God first influencing them through the
medium of simple Christian courtesy.