"I have always wondered," Laura proclaimed at the dinner-table that
night, "how I came to be such a charming creature. But in the light of
this morning's instructions, I perceive that it is through constant
imitation of mamma."
Now as Laura was considered in every way unlike her mother, this sally
called forth, as it was intended to do, numerous personalities.
"The resemblance is, indeed, astonishing," said Belle. "For instance,
you are punctuality itself."
"Of course," said Laura.
"What unblushing effrontery!" cried Belle.
"And I suppose you never lose money; keep your accounts to a T; can
keep a secret--"
"Oh, as to that," said Laura, "I am of too generous a disposition to
keep anything. You see it is all owing to the nobility of my character
that I have the reputation of being such a leaky vessel that you all
turn me out of the room, when anything is going on you don't want the
whole town to hear. By the by, mamma, you haven't told me what your
next book is to be about?"
"It is to be the history of Mrs. Laura Hosmer, _née_ Grey," said her
mother. "Therein will be set forth all her gifts and graces, her deeds
and her misdeeds."
"And a most instructive and entertaining work it will be," cried Laura.
"I shall buy up a whole edition to give to my friends, shan't I, baby?
Mamma, what a mistake you made in giving me the name you did," she ran
gaily on. "All the Lauras one reads about in books are such proper
creatures! See Miss Edgworth's stories, for instance. Look at her
Lauras. But really, now, what _is_ your next book to be?"
Mrs. Grey smiled and shook her head.
"Very well, if you won't tell me, I shan't tell you what mine is to be."
"_Yours!_" cried everybody, amused and incredulous.
"Oh, I don't see anything to laugh at," protested Laura. "Pray why
shouldn't I write books as well as mamma?"
"Mamma didn't begin at your age," said Belle. "She began about as soon
as she was born; and so would you if you had inherited her gifts."
"That doesn't follow," said Laura. "And I have hit upon a capital
subject! Now just listen." And in an animated way she imparted her
secret.
"It _is_ capital," said Belle. "But it is foolish to proclaim it. Next
news some one will get hold of it and cut you out."
"Yes; I think so, too," said Mrs. Grey. "I shouldn't mind cutting you
out myself."
"If you did, it would be your first dishonorable action," said Belle.
The children were all brought in now, and had a frolic till bed-time,
when they were escorted off by mammas and nurses, and Mrs. Grey and
Margaret were left alone.
"Oh, aunty," said Margaret, as the door closed, "I do wish _I_ had a
baby!"
"I don't see that I can help you to one," was the reply. "But I am glad
to see your love for the little folks, and when Belle goes home, I
think I can persuade her to leave Mabel with us for a while."
"Oh, she'll never do that. Mabel is such a perfect little darling!"
"I have usually charge of the last robin while a new one is settling
into the nest. It keeps me young, and it relieves Belle. In fact, what
with one thing and another, there are almost always some of the little
ones here."
"I'm so glad! so glad! I shall take the whole care of them."
"And at the same time study, draw, paint, and dabble with a thousand
other things?"
"I can study evenings. As to painting--why, aunty, it's nice to paint;
but there isn't any picture in the world to be compared to a little
live baby!"
"I haven't seen all the pictures in the world," said Mrs. Grey; "but
I do not doubt that God makes objects of beauty that man can, at
best, only imitate. Margaret, my child, do you know how relieved, how
thankful I am, to find this true womanly instinct so strong in you? I
have been afraid you might live in the mere gifts of genius you must
know you possess, and crowd out the feminine element. But you are safe.
A little child shall lead you."
"Why, aunty, I never knew I had any gifts," Margaret whispered.
"There will be plenty of worshippers to tell you so, sooner or later.
But I want to impress it upon you, that the greater your gifts the
greater your responsibility. Now several paths lie before you. You can
devote yourself to art and win a name for yourself, I do not doubt.
Or you can choose a literary life, and shine there. And if it were
necessary for you to do something for your own support, either of those
careers would be honorable. But there is a third vocation in a human
sphere open to you. It is to be one of the truest, the best, the most
unworldly, most unselfish of women."
"Like you, aunty," said Margaret, her eyes moistening. "I choose your
vocation."
They sat silently together after this, until the rest of the family
joined them; and after a time Laura asked:
"Where is Hatty? Seems to me it takes her an age to get her kittens to
bed."
"Something is going wrong with Kitty," explained Belle. "I thought
Mabel would never get to sleep, it distressed her so to hear Kitty cry."
"But why should Kitty cry?" asked Mrs. Grey, uneasily. "She appeared to
be perfectly well when she went up to bed."
"It's something about saying her prayers," said Belle, reluctantly.
"Poor Hatty means right, but I think she makes mistakes."
"That child is crying dreadfully," said Laura, going out into the hall,
and listening. "Hatty doesn't know how to manage her. Mamma, do go up
and see what the matter is."
Mrs. Grey hesitated. She was not fond of meddling with her sons' wives.
Just then, however, a servant appeared with a message to the effect
that "Mrs. George" would like to see her, and she flew up-stairs,
alarmed. She found Hatty flushed and excited, standing over Kitty, aged
twenty months, fast asleep on the floor, her breast heaving, the tears
shining on her lashes.
"Oh, mother, what shall I do? Kitty wouldn't say her prayers, and I
said she shouldn't go to bed till she had, and I slapped her arms over
and over again, and she wouldn't yield, but at last dropped to sleep
here on the floor. And I've got to leave her here all night, and she'll
catch her death of cold. Oh, dear, I wish I'd gone home with Fred. Fred
can always conquer her."
"My dear Hatty," said Mrs. Grey, "I am very sorry for you."
There was no reproach in tone or look, but the sincere sorrow of a
loving, sympathizing heart, and Hatty, young and inexperienced, burst
into tears.
"I never saw such a will," she said, "never."
"She comes honestly by it," was the reply; "and it will be of service
by and by. Meantime I would put her into bed, if I were you."
"But that would be breaking my word; and Fred says I must _never_ do
that. He says there is a special blessing for him who swears to his own
hurt. Oh, my little darling, how can I let you lie on that cold floor
all night?"
"It is unfortunate to threaten children. But I believe all do it in
their youth and inexperience. In this particular case I think you ought
to break your word as to its letter. As to its spirit you do not break
it; you certainly never meant to treat this dear little lamb cruelly."
"But suppose I put her to bed, and she remembers what passed between us
to-night, shan't I lose my hold on her? Won't she expect to disobey me
again?"
"I hardly think this baby-memory will recall to-night's scenes in a
definite way. If it does we will devise some way in which to preserve
its faith in you. Come, shall I put the little thing to bed? I haven't
threatened it, you know."
"Oh, dear, I wish Fred was here. Fred is so particular about having
Kitty obedient. He says it is indispensable."
"I am glad to hear it, and glad to know that you two are united in your
plans for the child. And now, suppose as you are a little confused as
to your duty, we kneel down and get counsel from One who knows how to
set you right."
A few simple words followed, and as they rose, the young mother threw
her arms around Mrs. Grey's neck, and kissed her.
"How I love you!" she said. "Fred said I should if I stayed long enough
to know you. I'm glad I stayed."
And here baby woke up, rubbed her eyes, and smiled.
"Me rested now; me say p'ayer now," she said. "Me was bely tired."
"I thought this was how it would end," said Mrs. Grey. "The little
creature was all tired out, not naughty. I am afraid you and I should
not like to have our arms slapped when we were too tired to pray."
"I hope I never shall threaten my poor little kitten again," said
Hatty, as she tucked the child snugly in its crib. "Why, I am almost
ill with the pain I have suffered. But now about to-morrow night?
Suppose Kitty forms a habit of refusing to say her prayers?"
"Dear Hatty, the children of _believing_ parents never form habits of
disobedience."
"Oh, are you sure of that? I know a number of truly good and faithful
parents whose children have turned out badly in every way."
"Investigate the cases and you will find something wrong in the
parents. It may be neglect, it may be over-doing; it may be too much
will, it may be too little will; I do not know, and unless I can be of
service in the matter, do not want to know the history of individual
experiences. But when I see a brook muddy, I like to know who stepped
in to trouble it, whether man or beast, especially if I am obliged to
drink from it."
Hatty smiled. "I rather think it was I who stepped into this brook,"
she said; "I thought I was acting for Kitty's best good, but perhaps
I was as willful, and as resolved to have my own way, as she was. But
before you go I want to ask you if we may pray about little things?"
"How little?"
"Well--for instance, what you did just now?"
"My dear Hatty, it is not a little thing to own our human helplessness,
and cast ourselves on Divine strength."
"But when it comes to a conflict between a mother and child, a mere
baby like Kitzie, ought the Lord of heaven and earth to be expected to
interfere?"
"Let us judge Him out of His own mouth. Recall His language as He moved
about on earth among just such beings as we are. He says, distinctly,
that He feeds the fowls of the air, sees to the growth of the lily
of the field, that no sparrow falls to the ground without His notice
and consent, and that He takes such personal interest in each of His
children that He knows exactly how many hairs we each have in our
heads. Can the tenderest mother say anything like this?"
"It is very puzzling."
"No, my dear, it is very simple. It is just taking God at His word.
Now, you sent for me, a mere mortal, fallible woman, to sympathize with
and help you out of an emergency. Do I then love you better than your
Father does? Am I any more ready to come to your rescue than He is?"
"Do you mean, then, that we are not to seek human counsel, but just go
to Him about everything?"
"No; I believe also in taking counsel of flesh and blood. The answer
to your prayer for light must come from God, but He often sends those
answers through human agency. And so I am very glad you sent for me
to-night. I love to be intrusted with His commissions. And now don't
you think we ought to go down and join the rest of them?"
As they entered the library, every one took a hasty glance at their
faces, and the tranquil expression of each satisfied what anxiety they
had felt. The next day was Sunday, and quite a procession set off for
church. Margaret came last of all, leading her beloved little Mabel by
the hand. The child had never been to church before, and her mother
thought taking her there such a doubtful experiment, that when Margaret
proposed it, she demurred a little. Finally, she consented to her
occupying a seat whence she could be easily removed, if troublesome.
Then she made her stand at her knee, took her hands in hers, and said:
"Mabel, darling, we are all going to God's house, because we love Him,
and He wants us to come."
"Yes, mamma."
"And it isn't like other houses; people who go there do not go to talk,
and laugh, and play; they go to pray to God, and sing to Him, and
hear about Him. And it isn't nice for little children to fidget and
whisper while that is being done. And if I let you go to His house this
morning, I shall expect you to sit still, and not to say a word."
"Yes, mamma. Will Christ be there?"
This child, through her whole life, invariably spoke of God as Christ.
"Yes, dear, He will be there, and will look at my little Mabel, and
know if she is quiet. But you will not see Him; no one does that."
And then turning to Margaret, she said:
"Have you ever taken a little child to church?"
"Oh, no! I wasn't born among such luxuries."
"As a general rule, it is anything but a luxury to break these little
colts in. They are accustomed to have liberty of action and of speech
at home; they do not understand the services at church, they get tired,
they nestle, and, if allowed, will whisper, on an average, once in
three minutes. Now, if Mabel whispers to you, take no notice whatever;
be lost in attention to what is going on. I lay great stress on this.
If my children go to church, they shall not distract me or annoy
others."
This reminded Margaret of many and many a scene she had witnessed
at church, and supposed, as far as she had thought of it at all, a
necessary evil. At first, in full remembrance of what her mother had
said, Mabel sat very still, but before long she began to grow tired and
restless.
"Is it most done?" she whispered.
Margaret appeared to be deaf, and Mabel repeated the question.
Margaret's deafness increased.
"I'm thirsty," said Mabel.
No answer.
"Doesn't Christ keep any water in His house?"
Here Margaret was tempted to smile, and so open the way for a
discussion. But she was true to Mrs. Heath's direction, and presently
the child, finding it useless to try to gain attention, gave up the
attempt. Now, in most cases, it is the mother herself who is to blame
when her little one claims and absorbs her chief attention at church.
If she replies to its question, she sets it an example of talking
during public worship, an act not to be tolerated, unless a case of
illness makes it necessary. And as long as she will listen and reply,
the child will vent its restlessness and weariness by incessant
whispering. Rather than receive no notice at all, it will call forth
such expressions as these:
"Julia, if you don't keep still, you sha'n't come to church. Julia,
you _must not_ get down from your seat. Julia, if you keep up this
whispering I can't hear the sermon. You're thirsty? Well, I can't help
it. Tired? I told you you would be tired, but you would come. Put down
that fan. Don't open my parasol. What a naughty little girl you are!"
On their return from service, Mrs. Heath asked how Mabel had behaved,
and Margaret reported things just as they were.
"I learned that scheme of deafness from mamma," said Mrs. Heath. "She
never would listen to a word from us at church."
"Fred says she gave him warning one Sunday morning that if he got down
from his seat, as he had a trick of doing, she would take him home,"
said Hatty:
"Yes, Hatty, I remember her doing that, and he never forgot it. Mamma
had been an invalid, and unable to attend church, and his nurse used to
take Fred, and she let him behave outrageously. It made a sensation,
I can tell you, when mamma led him, roaring, down the broad aisle,"
returned Laura.
After dinner, Mabel was allowed to stretch her limbs by playing with
Kitty; then her mother read to her and to the child next in age. Mabel
sat with her doll in her arms, but intent on the reading.
"Why, _Belle_!" said Hatty, who was beginning to get over shyness that
had kept her silent hitherto in the family gatherings. "Do you let
Mabel have her playthings on Sunday?"
"I never made any laws for my children in regard to Sunday, save this:
they should not be noisy on that day, and disturb those who wanted
quiet. As soon as they ceased to be mere animals, and began to reason
and to imitate, they laid aside their toys on Saturday night of their
own accord."
"But Mabel has her doll."
"Yes, she has her baby, and you have yours."
Hatty, in fact, played more with Kitty on Sunday than on any other day
in the week, except on nurse's afternoon "out"; for, like most mothers,
she had charge of her child in order to let the servants attend church.
And she would have thought the Lord a very hard Master if He had denied
her this privilege. Mabel, on the other hand, had left off playing on
Sunday, though she still allowed herself to hold her baby in her loving
little arms. Now, is it likely that He who implanted this maternal
instinct begrudged this child the caress she gave her doll?
"I don't think the cases are parallel," objected Hatty. "I _must_ have
Kitzie, and _must_ amuse her. My mother locked up all our toys on
Saturday night."
"Yes, many mothers do, and pride themselves on it. And so, as children
must and will have occupation, they are likely to eat apples,
gingerbread, or whatever they can get hold of, to pass away the time.
This makes them heavy and ill-natured, and they get to quarrelling."
"But think how strict the old Jewish law was! A man stoned to death for
picking up sticks!"
"The world was in its infancy then; and at any rate, He who made the
law had His own reasons for it. But we live under a new dispensation,
and ours is a Christian, not a Jewish, Sabbath. I have a great dread
of making it a disagreeable day to my children."
"But you can't deny," said Laura, joining the group with her baby,
"that there is awful laxity in regard to the Sabbath nowadays."
"No, I do not deny it; there always is reaction after pressure. It is
to be hoped that things will right themselves in time."
"Well, I wish the Bible had given explicit directions about everything."
"Hasn't it?"
"No, indeed. Here are you and Hatty, both good souls as ever lived,
taking contrary views of so apparently plain a thing as to how to keep
Sunday. Now, the promise to those who don't do their own ways, nor find
their own pleasure, or speak their own words, staggers me as much as
any admonition or threat could. Thousands of Christians will tell you
this is their ideal of Sunday; but who lives up to it? Goodness! Think
of the worldly talk that has gone on to-day among those who profess to
be saints!"
"Now you go too far, Laura," said Belle.
"No, I don't, an atom too far. Didn't I dine, not a month ago, at the
Rev. Dr. Enoch Rivers', just after he had preached one of his solemn
sermons, and didn't he slip into his luxurious dressing-gown and have
his own way in it? And didn't he seek his own pleasure when he sat
down to his roast-beef? And didn't he speak his own words exactly as if
it was Monday?"
"And if he had preached while eating his dinner, you would call him a
prig. And you surely would not ask him to come to the table in gown and
bands! And as to the roast beef, what could be more wholesome?"
But by this time signs of discomfort and weariness began to show
themselves in the little Heaths, and though their mother saw fit
to be blind and deaf to this at church, she would not neglect them
elsewhere. So dropping all further discussion, she turned as she
always could, into a bright, animated, live mother, and entertained
and interested her little flock, till it was time for tea. Sunday to
them meant a great deal of mamma; a good many stories, sweet singing,
cheerful faces, and invariably some special indulgence, such as having
their bread-and-milk in special silver or special china, and eating
with special spoons. No hard tasks were given on this day, such as
committing to memory chapters from the Bible, hymns, catechism; it was
entire rest.
Mr. and Mrs. Heath wanted their children to love God's day, and respect
it, but they shrank from making them dread it as one full of needless
restriction, hard tasks, toils, and tears. Nor were they willing to
_force_ them to spiritual exercises too early, or to incur the hazard
of religious disgust by long exhortations. Their aim was so to live
the week throughout, as they would have their children, in their
measures, live. To the casual spectator, they seemed to do very much
less for them than other Christian parents did for theirs. But the
fact is, they never lost sight of their best interests, but pursued
those interests quietly, persistently, without parade or fuss, and with
the deepest possible sense, that under God they would lose or gain
everything through them.
Happy are the children that are in such a case.