Anna blushed. "I know it. I was thinking of that very thing

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

THE

SCHOOL-GIRLS'

TREASURY

OR,

STORIES FOR THOUGHTFUL GIRLS.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SOCIETY FOR THE PROMOTION

OF EVANGELICAL KNOWLEDGE,

NO. 2, BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK.

1870.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870,

BY "THE PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SOCIETY FOR THE

PROMOTION OF EVANGELICAL KNOWLEDGE,"

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the

United States for the Southern District of New York.

ST. JOHNLAND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, SUFFOLK CO., N. Y.

THIS VOLUME

IS PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL CONTRIBUTION

OF THE

SUNDAY-SCHOOL OF THE CHURCH OF

THE INCARNATION,

NEW YORK.

[Illustration]

CONTENTS.

ANNA, OR, "MAKE THE BEST OF IT"

DORA, OR, "WON'T YOU EVER TELL?"

ESTHER'S BAD DAY, OR, "I COULDN'T HELP IT"

MARTHA, OR, "CHARITY THINKETH NO EVIL"

MARY, OR, "SHE MADE ME DO IT"

LOUISA, OR, "JUST ONE MINUTE"

THE

SCHOOL-GIRLS'

TREASURY

[Illustration: ANNA, OR, "MAKE THE BEST OF IT." Frontispiece.]

[Illustration]

ANNA,

OR,

MAKE THE BEST OF IT.

YOU would not oftener see a pleasanter parlor than the one where Anna

was sitting. It was handsomely and tastefully furnished, with abundance

of pictures and prints on the walls. There were pretty chintz curtains

to the one large window, and the couches and chairs were covered with

the same material. There was a bright blazing fire burning in the

grate, and a pretty kitten sat purring on the rug before it. The gas

was lighted, and a table at Anna's elbow was strewn with books and

magazines.

Yet Anna sat in her comfortable chair before the fire, looking very

doleful indeed, and she had been sitting so for a whole hour. She had

a book in her hand, but she was not reading: her eyes were apparently

fixed on the kitten before the fire, and it was easy to see that a very

little would make them overflow with tears. In fact, Anna felt very

unhappy, and—in spite of her long frocks which she had worn for a full

half year—very babyish indeed.

Anna had been left at home to keep house for a week, while her father

and mother and the two younger children went to visit her grandfather.

Anna had expected a very dear friend to stay with her while her father

and mother were gone. Lillie Adams was to have come by the evening

train, and Anna had caused a dainty hot supper to be prepared for her;

but instead of her friend, the postman brought a hurried letter from

Lillie Adams, saying that her father had been suddenly called abroad

on business and wished her to go with him: so she was going to Germany

upon three days' notice, instead of coming to visit Anna.

This was a grievous disappointment, no doubt, and it was no wonder that

Anna felt it; but she was not going to work to meet it in the right way.

She was making the worst instead of the best of the case. She would not

eat a mouthful of the supper which had been prepared for her friend;

she betook herself to none of her usual evening employments, but sat

moodily before the fire, picturing to herself the merry group which

would be assembled at her grandfather's fireside, and the delightful

bustle in which Lillie Adams was engaged preparing to go abroad. And

contrasting these things with her own lonely condition and the long

tiresome week of solitude which was before her. There was great danger

of the eyes overflowing, after all: when the opening of the door and

the entrance of the cook made a moment's diversion.

Caroline Davis was a colored woman who had lived with Mrs. Grey ever

since her marriage, and was regarded as a friend and counsellor

by all the family, from the oldest to the youngest, especially by

the children. She was apt to "speak her mind," as she said, on all

occasions, especially when she thought she saw any of the children

going wrong, and she had come to speak her mind now to her favorite,

Miss Anna.

"Miss Anna!" said she, planting herself in front of her. "Ain't you

going to eat any supper?"

"I don't want anything, thank you, Caroline," said Anna, in a doleful

tone.

"You'd better have something," persisted Caroline. "I've got some

splendid batter cakes, just baked, and a chocolate cake such as you

like; and I'll make you a famous cup of coffee."

"I don't think I want any, thank you, Caroline," repeated Anna, still

more dolefully, though she was conscious of certain stirrings within at

the mention of the chocolate cake and other dainties.

Caroline took a step forward, and placed her arms a-kimbo, as she was

apt to do when disposed for an argument. "Look here, honey," said she.

"Do you calculate to go on this way all the time your pa and ma are

away? Because, if you do, I think I'd better write to them to come home

again."

Anna smiled, in spite of herself. "I hav'n't made any calculations

about the matter, Caroline. My calculations have not turned out so well

that I should want to make any more," she added, rather bitterly.

"Just so, honey. You've been disappointed, I don't deny it; and no

wonder you feel bad. But the question is, are you going to feel as bad

as you can, or are you going to make the best of it? You know what the

Bible says about taking up the cross, Miss Anna, my dear. Now this

disappointment is a cross that He has sent you, and the question is

whether you are going to take it up and bear it like a Christian or sit

down on the ground and fret under it, like a baby?"

Anna seemed a good deal interested by this view of the case. "But it

hardly seems right to call such a thing as this a cross," said she.

Caroline smiled. "Well, I don't call it the biggest kind of a cross,"

said she, "that is compared to what some folks have to carry—old Mrs.

Williams, for instance, with her bad leg and her rheumatic shoulders

and her poor consumptive daughter. Still it is a cross for you to be

disappointed of your friend's visit, and to have to stay alone all the

week; but I would not make it any worse than it is, if I were you. Now

I shall go and get your supper and bring it to you in here, and I guess

you'll find you want some, after all."

Anna sat thinking, after Caroline left the room, but it was with quite

a different expression of face.

"How silly I am!" she was saying to herself. "Only yesterday I was

reading the lives of Margaret Rogers and Lady Jane Gray, and wishing I

had lived in times when there were some great things to do; and hear

I am actually crying like a baby over the very first thing that comes

to try my strength, and sitting down as though them were no more to be

done in the world, because Lillie Adams is going to Europe. I won't be

such a fool, and that is all about it. Come, Pussy, get up and make

yourself agreeable!"

Pussy was very ready to exert herself for Anna's benefit and her own,

and the two were in the midst of a famous romp, when Caroline entered

with her dainty tray of provisions.

"There, now! I call that something like!" said she, much pleased with

the change. "Come and eat your supper, honey, while it is hot."

Anna disposed of her batter-puffs and other good things in a way which

showed that her trouble had not entirely destroyed her appetite, and

she could not deny that she enjoyed her supper.

"Caroline," said she, "you know that breakfast shawl Aunt Anna left

here? It is rather faded, but not at all worn out. I have been thinking

that I might ravel it out and make it over with some stripes of a new

bright color. That would make it quite pretty again, and it would be

nice and warm for Mrs. Williams' lame shoulders."

"That is an excellent notion of yours, my dear. The old lady needs a

shawl, I know, and she likes bright colors, too: and she will think all

the more of the shawl if it is your own work."

Anna was one of those people who, when they think of a project for

the benefit of another, like to set about it directly; so she went

up-stairs and brought down the old shawl and a large basket of

bright-colored worsteds, of many different shades.

The rest of the evening quickly passed away in ravelling out the shawl

and contriving the best way of making it over so as to be better than

before. And Anna was surprised when Caroline came in and said it was

nine o'clock.

"Are you going to have prayers to-night, Miss Anna?"

Anna hesitated. She felt very shy about reading and praying before the

servants.

"I would, if I were you," said Caroline. "You see you are the head of

the house, now that your father and mother are away."

"And I am sure we need to ask God's protection all the more when we are

separated one from the other," thought Anna. "No, I will not give way

to false shame. I may as well begin now as any time. Yes, Caroline, we

will have prayers, if you will tell Jane and Albert to come in."

Anna's heart beat fast when she began to read, but she tried to fix her

mind upon the sacred words, and by the time she came to the prayers,

she was ready to pray with all her heart.

"Well, I didn't believe Miss Anna would read prayers!" she heard Jane

say, after the servants had left the room. "She is such a shy young

lady, generally. You know for all she plays so well, how she hates to

play before company."

"She is her father's own daughter," replied Caroline. "When she knows

she ought to do a thing she does it; I tell you she isn't ashamed to

confess her Lord before men, and He won't be ashamed to confess her in

the great day!"

"Was that confessing Christ, I wonder?" thought Anna. "I suppose it

was, in one way, though I did not think of it at the time. I am glad I

did read, at any rate."

Some of Anna's unpleasant feelings returned when she found herself in

her own room up-stairs. It seemed so very lonely without papa and mamma

in the next room and the boys overhead, and she began to wonder whether

she was going to be afraid.

"But, after all, what is there to be afraid of?" she said to herself.

"The bell-rope hangs close to my head and I have only to pull it to

call Caroline and Albert in a minute. Besides it is God who takes care

of me when my father and mother are here, and He can do it just as well

when they are away!"

So Anna read her chapters and said her prayers, and learned her two

verses to repeat in the morning, as was the custom of the family; and

then went bravely to bed without even looking under the bed, as she did

sometimes when her parents were at home. She had thought she should lie

awake and listen for suspicious noises; but, as it happened, the first

noise she heard was the ringing of the first bell in the morning.

"Now, what had I better do to-day?" she said to herself, as she was

dressing. "I have no particular work, and there is nothing to be done

about the house. O dear, I wish it was not vacation and all the girls I

care about were not away. But then if it is vacation, that is no reason

why I should be idle; I mean to practise two hours instead of one, and

try to get those waltzes perfectly that papa likes so much."

"And what else shall I do? I believe I will try painting a picture all

by myself, and see what I can make of it. Miss Jeffrey says I ought to

be able to work by myself now, and I am sure she will be pleased if I

have something pretty to show her when school begins again. I will copy

that chromo which Aunt Anna gave mamma; and if it turns out nicely, it

will be a pretty present for one of the old ladies at the Home."

Anna read prayers after breakfast, and then, after dusting the

drawing-room, she sat down for two hours of vigorous practise. Then she

began her picture, and by dinnertime she had her paper prepared, her

outline drawn, and her first tints washed in.

"There! I have made a good beginning!" said she, looking at her work

with great satisfaction. "And if nothing happens, I shall have finished

it before mamma comes home, and before school begins again. I mean

to work at music and painting in the morning and take a good long

walk every afternoon. Then I will work at Mrs. Williams' shawl in the

evening, and that will use up my time nicely."

Something was destined to happen, however, which sadly interfered

with all these calculations. When Anna returned from her walk that

afternoon, she saw that the blinds of the front bed-room were opened.

"I wonder if Lillie can have come, after all!" she said to herself, as

she quickened her steps.

She was met at the door by Caroline with a face which promised no good

news.

"Has any one come?" she asked.

"Well, yes, honey, somebody has come, though I'm afraid it isn't any

one you want to see very bad."

"Not Aunt Dorinda!" exclaimed Anna, rather more loudly than was

prudent, considering the tone in which she spoke.

"Hush, my dear! She will hear you! Yes, it is Aunt Dorinda, sure

enough! Never mind, honey, we can't help it now. We must only make the

best of it, that's all."

"Aunt Dorinda, of all people!" thought Anna, as she went to her room to

take off her hat. "Well, there is an end to all my fine plans. However,

as Caroline says, there is no help for it now. Poor thing, I suppose I

may as well have her for a little while as anybody else. I must just

leave off studying painting and study patience, that is all."

Poor Aunt Dorinda! She was a woman of a good deal of talent. She was

tolerably rich, and decidedly well educated; and she fully intended to

be a Christian, and to do a great deal of good in the world; and yet

there was not one of all the families she visited who did not dread to

see her come into the house, or who did not feel relieved when she went

away.

All this inconsistency is easily explained. Aunt Dorinda never did

or could mind her own business, and let the affairs of other people

alone. She was possessed with a great desire to do good, and she was

always making presents; but she wished always to do good exactly in her

own way; and her presents were generally accompanied with remarks and

admonitions which rendered them bitter pills to those who were obliged

to accept them.

"So it seems I have come just in the nick of time!" said she to her

niece, after the first greeting. "I do wonder your mother should have

you to keep house alone. I don't suppose you know anything about it."

"I don't have very much housekeeping to do, Aunt Dorinda," replied

Anna. "Caroline is the housekeeper when mamma is away. And I did not

expect to be alone either, for Lillie Adams was coming to stay with me,

only she was obliged to go away unexpectedly."

"Worse and worse! Two giddy heads are worse than one. I am surprised

that your mother should think of leaving you alone with such a vain

worldly girl as Lillie Adams."

"Lillie is neither vain nor worldly, Aunt Dorinda!" said Anna, with

spirit. "She was confirmed last Easter, and the is a good Christian

girl, if ever there was one."

"Don't tell me that, Anna Grey!" returned Aunt Dorinda, angrily.

"Haven't I seen her with my own eyes with three ruffles on the lower

skirt of her dress and as many on the upper? Do you call that being a

Christian?"

"Lillie does not follow her own taste in dress," said Anna, smiling in

spite of herself. "Her stepmother dresses her. Lillie said to me that

she preferred to dress more plainly; but Mrs. Adams had always been

so kind and good to her, that she did not like to contradict her on a

matter of no great importance. You know, Aunt Dorinda, how devotedly

Mrs. Adams nursed Lillie through her long illness, after she had that

dreadful accident. Papa himself said that Lillie owed her life and

health more to her stepmother's nursing than to his skill. Mrs. Adams

gave up everything to her."

"O yes, I know!" said Aunt Dorinda, scornfully. "I heard all that when

I talked to Lillie as I did about her dress."

"'What of that?' said I. 'You ought to follow your own convictions of

duty, whatever your stepmother may say.'"

"And all Lillie did was to toss head and say that 'her convictions of

duty led her to honor her father and mother.'"

"What time do you have tea?"

"At seven-o'clock, aunt, because it is more convenient to papa: but I

will order it earlier, if you are hungry, after your ride."

"Well, I am surprised!" This was Aunt Dorinda's favorite phrase. "I

should think your father, being a physician, would know better than to

eat so late in the evening. Half-past five is the very latest hour that

any one ought to eat."

Anna could not help thinking that her father, being a physician, would

be likely to know what was good for himself and his family; but she

said nothing, and ordered tea at half-past five, thinking that at least

she would have a good long evening to work.

Aunt Dorinda, came down at tea-time, bringing a very large work-basket

with her. She shook her head at the biscuits, declaring them very

unwholesome, but managed to eat a fair share of them nevertheless, with

a due proportion of stewed oysters and other good things.

Anna tried to keep her entertained by asking questions about different

relatives and family friends; but she found there was not one of them

all who had not displeased Aunt Dorinda in some way or other, generally

by having opinions of their own about the management of their private

affairs. Aunt Dorinda was one of those people who think that they are

always right, and therefore always entitled to find fault with others.

She had, as it were, cut out a pattern of Christian character according

to her own notions of perfection, and she went about the world trying

this pattern upon all her acquaintances, and endeavoring to pare and

prune them or else to stretch them to fit it. She frowned and shook her

head when Anna brought out her crochet work, after tea.

"Always at that useless fancy work!" said she. "Why do you not do

something useful? How much better to be working for some poor person

or for the missionaries, than to be spending your time in such idle

pursuits!"

"But this is for a poor person, aunt," said Anna, determined not to be

vexed. "It is for old Mrs. Williams, at the Home."

"How absurd, Anna! Making such a fanciful thing for a poor woman who is

dependent for her daily bread! You might buy a woollen shawl for half

the money, which would do her just as much good and save your time and

your funds."

"I don't think so, aunt! You see this shawl did not cost me any money,

except twenty-five cents for some scarlet-shaded wool. Aunt Anna left

it here when she went away and told me to give it to some poor person.

And almost all the new wool I am using is made up of odds and ends left

from different pieces of work."

"Then why not give her the shawl just as your aunt left it?"

"Because it would not be as acceptable, aunt. Mrs. Williams loves

pretty things and colors, and she will like the shawl all the better if

it is my own work."

"Humph! I suppose you flatter yourself that you are doing all that work

for Mrs. Williams and not for your own amusement?"

"Yes, aunt, I think so," said Anna, simply.

"Well, here is the proof. I have in this basket some shirts to be made

up for a missionary at the west. Let me see you put away that senseless

worsted, and stitch one of these bosoms."

"I cannot do it this evening, aunt, because papa does not like to have

me do fine work in the evening," said Anna, speaking pleasantly, though

she felt annoyed. "But I will stitch it to-morrow, with pleasure."

"We shall see when to-morrow comes!" said Aunt Dorinda, rather

ungraciously. "I hope no new excuse will turn up in the meantime. There

now, child, you need not color so and look so vexed. I mean all for

your good, and you know I always say just what I think to everybody."

"But you don't like it one bit, when people say what they think to

you!" thought Anna, but she did not say so.

She began asking about the missionary to whom the shirts were to be

sent, and about other missionaries; and the rest of the evening passed

over very comfortably.

"We have prayers at nine o'clock, Aunt Dorinda," said Anna, when the

clock struck the hour.

"Indeed!" said Aunt Dorinda. "Who conducts them, now that your father

is away?"

"I did last night and this morning," replied Anna. "I thought perhaps

you would do so to-night."

"You had better do just as you would if I were not here," said Aunt

Dorinda. "I will see how you manage, and tell you if there is room for

improvement."

Anna did not feel any more devotional for the thought that Aunt Dorinda

was criticising her; but she tried to collect herself and to think of

nothing but the solemn duty in which she was engaged; and she succeeded

better than she expected.

"Why don't you pray in your own words?" was Aunt Dorinda's first

question.

"Because, aunt, I think that the words in the book are better than any

I could use. And besides," added Anna, rather, timidly; "if I were to

try to pray in my own words before others, I am afraid I should be

thinking more of the words and of how to express myself than of the

sense."

"Do you think then that all those who pray in their own words before

others are thinking more of the words than of the sense?" asked Aunt

Dorinda, sharply.

"No, aunt, not at all. I was only speaking of myself. And I don't see

either why I should use my own words when I have such good and suitable

words all ready for me."

"I am afraid you have no proper spirit of devotion," said Aunt Dorinda,

severely. "I am afraid you have never learned to pray in the true

spirit of prayer."

Anna was too much hurt to reply, and perhaps it was as well she did not

do so. She went to her room feeling tired, discouraged and unhappy. Was

it really tree that she had never learned to pray, and had none of the

true spirit of devotion? Had all her enjoyments in the Church services

and in her private devotions been a delusion? Had she done wrong,

after all, in performing the duty which it had been so hard for her to

undertake? And if she had been wrong so far, how was she to set herself

right?

"Oh, how I do wish mamma was at home!" said she, sighing. "She would

tell me what I ought to do. And how am I to get on with Aunt Dorinda,

all alone, for a week?"

Anna took up her little book of texts for every day in the year. It had

been given her by her Sunday-school teacher with the advice that she

should learn the text for every day, and keep it in mind as a topic for

meditation. She opened to the day of the month, and her eyes fell on

the words:

"All things work together for good to them that love God."

"'All things,'" she thought. "And 'to them that love God.' Do I love

Him? Yes, I am sure I do. Aunt Dorinda says it is very hard to tell

whether we love God or not; but I don't see why it should be so. I

don't find it hard to tell whether I love my other friends or not. Yes,

I am sure I love Him, and if so, this promise is for me."

"Then there must be some way in which Aunt Dorinda's visit may do me

good. I do not see how, unless in teaching me to be patient at being

contradicted and put out of my way. Mamma says of me sometimes that I

am very pleasant when I am pleased. Well, I must learn to be pleasant

when I am not pleased. I know that Aunt Dorinda, does really mean to be

good and kind, and I must try to remember that and have patience with

the rest. I suppose I shall have to give up my painting and work at

those shirt-bosoms, but that is no great sacrifice, after all, and the

shirts will do somebody good. It isn't the heaviest kind of a cross, as

Caroline says, after all."

By the time Anna had finished her prayers and reading, she felt once

more contented and happy. She went to sleep with the words of praise

upon her lips and in her heart, and awoke feeling cheerful and brave,

and ready to "make the best of anything that should happen."

That day Anna not only stitched the shirt-bosom, putting aside her

painting for the purpose, but she nearly finished the garment. She

did not, however, think it necessary to give up Mrs. Williams' shawl,

though her aunt went out in the afternoon and bought some marvellously

coarse yarn expressly that Anna might, as she said, have no excuse for

that senseless fancywork: thinking that her poor old friend had quite

as much claims upon her as a person she had never seen, and whom even

her aunt did not know.

Aunt Dorinda stayed three days, and then received a letter which

decided her to go back directly. Anna helped her to pack with a right

good will, and she drew a long breath of relief as Aunt Dorinda drove

away.

"Well, she's gone!" said Caroline. "She means to be a good woman, I

don't doubt, but she is a trial. There's one thing I must say, Miss

Anna, my dear, that you might learn from your aunt, and that is to mind

your own business, and not interfere with other folks, even when you

think you know more than they do. It is just that which makes her so

disagreeable, and makes her do harm where she wants and means to do

good. And you know, honey, you do interfere sometimes, even with your

mother."

Anna blushed. "I know it. I was thinking of that very thing last night."

"Well, then, that is one way to make the best of Aunt Dorinda. Try to

be like her in wishing to do good and to help others; and learn from

her, not to spoil all the good you do by dictating and interfering so

as to make people dislike you. I tell you, honey, these disagreeable

Christians have a great deal to answer for."

The remaining days of the week passed pleasantly and quickly to Anna;

but she was a good deal disappointed when, on Saturday, she received

a letter from her father, saying that they should not be at home for

three days longer.

"Three more days!" she thought. "But then I shall have time to finish

my picture and my shawl; and I am sure mamma will be pleased with them."

Thus you have seen how by a brave and cheerful spirit Anna was enabled

to enjoy the time which at first seemed likely to pass so heavily; and

how by a spirit of Christian gentleness and humility she contrived to

extract real good out of what might have made her only fretful and

unhappy.

Try, my dear girls, to do likewise. Try to make the best of whatever

happens, and when, as it seems, there is no best to be made, try to

receive your trouble as a cross from the hand of your kind and loving

Heavenly Father, and pray for His grace to sanctify your affliction,

and be assured He will teach you to "make the best of it."

[Illustration]

[Illustration: DORA, OR, "WON'T YOU EVER TELL?" Frontispiece.]

[Illustration]

DORA,

OR,

"WON'T YOU EVER TELL?"

"WON'T you ever tell as long as you live and breathe?" said Dora Hayes

to Eva Morrison.

"No," replied Eva, thoughtlessly.

"Just as true as you live?" repeated Dora.

"I don't know," said Eva, taking a second thought. "I always do tell

mother everything."

"Then I shall not tell you!" returned Dora, tossing her head. "If you

are such a baby as that, I shall never tell you anything. I should

think you would be ashamed to run and tell m—a—a everything you hear."

And Dora tossed her head and laughed in a very ill-bred, disagreeable

manner.

"Well, I am not ashamed, and I don't want any of your secrets, Dora

Hayes," said Eva, coloring, but speaking very decidedly. "My mother is

the best friend I have in the world, and I love her dearly, and I don't

know who I should tell things to, if not to her. So you may keep your

great secret to yourself."

"But this is something that somebody said about you," said Dora, seeing

that she had made a mistake in laughing at Eva.

"So much the worse," returned Eva, boldly, though she felt her

curiosity excited. "I don't want to know what people say about me, and

you ought never to repeat conversation either. You know what the doctor

said about that in catechism class only yesterday."

And Eva turned away, and sitting down at a distance, she occupied

herself in learning her lesson till school began. A good many times in

the course of the day, she found herself wondering what it was that

Dora wanted to tell her; but she put the thought resolutely away. And

by the next morning, she had almost forgotten the matter.

Eva's parents were among the richest people in the place. Eva herself

was always prettily and fashionably dressed: she had plenty of

pocket-money to spend, and she had been in vacation to Saratoga and

Newport, and even to London and Paris with her parents.

According to the usual course of story-books, Eva ought, I suppose, to

be represented as proud, and haughty, and vain. I am glad to say that

she was nothing of the sort. She was a kindhearted, truthful, good

girl, always ready to help her school-mates in their lessons and to

amuse them with telling stories of what she had seen. She was, for that

matter, not nearly so proud as her classmate and most particular friend

Amy Preston.

Amy was the daughter of a widow lady, who kept a fancy-store in the

place where Eva lived. Mrs. Preston was the widow of an artist. She

might have had a home with her husband's relatives, but like a good

and sensible woman as she was, she preferred supporting herself by the

beautiful work she had learned to do abroad, and by selling materials

for embroidery and other fancywork; and this she did with an honesty

and energy which made her very much respected. Mrs. Preston had only

one child, and she wished to give her such an education as would enable

her to support herself if it became necessary. Her own business was

prosperous enough to enable her to afford it: so she kept Amy at the

best school in the place and allowed her to take music lessons of the

same master who taught Eva Morrison.

Eva had "taken," as the girls say, to Amy Preston from the very first;

but it was a good while before Amy responded to her advances. For

Amy was proud, as perhaps was only natural, and she was afraid that

people would say she flattered and courted the heiress. She persisted

for a good while in being very cool to Eva, but at last Eva's loving

frankness and persevering kindness won the day, and the two girls were

now the best friends in the world.

Mrs. Morrison entirely approved of this friendship. She had known Mrs.

Preston for years, and she did not believe that Eva was likely to

learn anything bad from Amy. Besides, Amy was a good scholar and very

industrious; and Mrs. Morrison thought she might have a good influence

over Eva, who was inclined to be rather lazy over all her lessons but

music and drawing.

We have said that Amy was proud, and that it was only natural that she

should be so. There is a certain sort of pride, if pride it can be

called, which is very proper. I mean the feeling which makes people

prefer helping themselves, when they are able, to being helped by

others; and causes them to be cautious and delicate about receiving

expensive presents, and the like.

But this very proper feeling may be carried too far, and too far Amy

certainly did carry it. She would walk home from school in the rain

rather than ride in the carriage which Mr. Morrison sent for Eva. She

would not receive the smallest present from Eva without making her one

in return; and it was a long time before she would consent to borrow

from Eva's large library of story-books.

In fact, Amy was jealous of her friend's wealth and so-called station.

It often happens that we go on indulging very serious faults, just

because we will not allow ourselves to call these faults by their right

names. Thus we call anger just resentment, and pride self-respect, and

blunt rudeness sincerity, and so on.

If Amy had really become aware that she was cherishing envy and

jealousy, she would have been shocked, for she was trying very hard

to be a Christian. But she christened her fault by the pretty name of

self-respect. When the cow-bird lays her egg in the sparrow's nest, the

sparrow cherishes it and brings up the intruder as her own; but the

cow-bird hatches sooner, and grows faster than the young sparrows, and

very soon turns them all out of the nest. So this intruder, which Amy

called self-respect, was rapidly outgrowing all the gentle virtues of

charity, humility and love in Amy's heart, and was getting ready, when

occasion served, to turn them all out and keep the nest to itself.

The occasion was not very far off. There was one girl in the school who

entirely disapproved of the warm friendship which existed between Eva

and Amy, and that was Dora Hayes. Dora was a far-away cousin of Eva's

and would have liked to be very intimate with her. Dora had no pride

to prevent her from accepting any amount of obligations from her rich

relations, and she would have boarded, and lodged, and dressed at Mr.

Morrison's expense the year round without having her feelings hurt or

her gratitude excited in the least degree.

Dora was always hanging about Eva, contriving to sit next to her, and

fishing for invitations to visit her. But Eva, though she was, or meant

to be, kind to Dora, did not like her. She thought her both mean and

deceitful, as indeed she was. And while she sometimes made her presents

and lent her books, she would never encourage Dora's attempts at

intimacy.

This was very vexatious to Dora. She laid it all to Eva's friendship

with "that Preston girl," as she called her, and this friendship she

determined somehow or other to break up. She had begun upon Eva, but,

as we have seen, with little success. Eva would not promise not to

tell, and would not hear her wonderful secret at any price. Dora was

very much vexed, but she was not one to give up easily any point she

had set her heart upon. She determined to try and see what she could do

with Amy.

Amy frequently staid in the store and attended to customers when her

mother was obliged to be out. Dora knew this, and that very afternoon,

finding Amy alone, she pretended to want to select a worsted pattern,

and began upon Amy while she was looking over Mrs. Preston's large

stock of patterns.

"You and Eva Morrison are great friends," said she.

"Yes," answered Amy, rather shortly, as if she would add, "what is that

to you?"

"Eva is a good girl," continued Dora. "She is very generous, at least

of things which don't cost her anything; but she is queer about some

things. I wish she would not act as she does, but there is no use in my

saying anything to her, and I shall not try again. Eva has never been

kind to me," added Dora, with a sigh; "but still she is my cousin, and

I love her, though I do see her faults. Poor thing, every one flatters

her, so it is no great wonder if she does think she does anybody a

great favor by noticing them."

"That is a pretty pattern for your cushion!" said Amy, who was

beginning to feel uncomfortable, and to wish Dora would go away. "And

it is easy to work. Why don't you take that?"

"There is not enough variety about it," answered Dora, delighted to

perceive the effect of her words. "I want something prettier. As I was

saying, it is no wonder that Eva is set up to think that she does you a

great honor by noticing you, though I must say I think you do as much

for her as she does for you."

"I don't know—" Amy began.

".Of course you don't know—how should you?" interrupted Dora. "Nobody

likes to make mischief, and so nobody tells you what Eva says. I think

myself it is a shame that you should not hear it, because people know

how Eva goes on; and, of course, they think you know it too, and just

keep on with her for what you get out of her."

"I don't get anything out of her!" said Amy, coloring.

"I know you don't, really, and that is just why I say it is a shame for

Eva to say so!"

"To say what?" asked Amy, in a tone of irritation. "If you have

anything to tell me, Dora, I wish you would speak it out, and have done

with it!"

"Oh, well, if you want me to tell you, of course I can. Well, a certain

person said to Eva the other day, 'I do wonder how you can make a

friend of Amy Preston!' 'Oh!' said Miss Eva, contemptuously. 'Amy is a

very cheap friend. She does not want as much as some people to keep her

friendship!'"

"What did she mean by that?" asked Amy.

"Why, I suppose she meant that you, being poor, would be thankful for

small favors. And then she laughed and said: 'We know what we are

about. Amy gets what she wants, and I got what I want!' I suppose she

gives you a great many presents, doesn't she?"

"No, indeed, she does not, because I will not take them!" replied Amy.

"Well, I am surprised!" said Dora. "I thought from what I have heard

Eva say, that she more than half-clothed you. She gave you the dress

you have on, didn't she? I understood her so."

"She never gave me a dress in the world!" exclaimed Amy, vehemently.

"Nor anything else to wear. It is a likely story, indeed, that I should

accept such presents from anybody."

"Well there, I didn't believe it!" said Dora. "I said all the time

I didn't; but you see your dress being just like the one Eva wore

last winter, people naturally believe the story. I don't see why Eva

should tell every one, if she did give you an old dress. I always

thought we were not to let our left hand know what our right hand did.

Eva pretends to be such a Christian, too! I don't see how she can do

so; though, for my part, I never can see that people who make great

pretensions to religion air better than any one else."

If it had not been for that little imp of envy and jealousy which Amy

had been nursing and potting under the pretty name of self-respect,

she would never have given credit to a story so entirely inconsistent

with what she had known of her friend's character. She would have seen

through Dora at once, and treated her insinuations and stories with the

contempt they deserved. But the jealous spirit was whispering in her

ear that it was no more than was to be expected, or than she deserved

for running after a girl so much richer than herself. She therefore

answered angrily:

"If Eva Morrison says she ever gave me a dress, or anything of the

kind, she tells a lie, and you may tell her I say so! I should think

she would be ashamed of herself to be such a hypocrite—pretending to be

so fond of me and then telling such falsehoods about me. I have a great

mind to say I will never speak to her again!"

"I wouldn't, if I were you," said Dora, delighted with her success.

"But, Amy, don't you ever tell Eva that I told you. It would make no

end of trouble in the family, if you should, because my father and Mr.

Morrison are in business together. By the way, it is not true, is it,

that Mr. Morrison set your mother up in business?"

"Of course not! Mother had money enough from the sale of my father's

pictures to set herself up in business, and have something to spare!"

"There, I didn't believe it when she said so. Well, Amy, I don't like

any of these patterns. I think I will go down to Mrs. Mercer's and see

if she has anything prettier."

Dora went away very much delighted with the success of her scheme, and

leaving Amy feeling more unhappy than she had ever done in all her

life before. She loved Eva dearly, and was deeply grieved that her

friend should have been so treacherous toward her. But her pride was

also wounded, and she listened to the counsels of pride rather than to

those of affection. The latter advised her to go at once to Eva, tell

her what she had heard, and ask an explanation; but pride told her that

such a course would be mean and degrading, and would show her to be

wanting in self-respect. It would have been well for Amy if, like Eva,

she had been in the habit of telling everything to her mother; but she

was very reserved by nature, and rarely spoke to any one of her own

feelings.

She brooded over what she had heard all that day and the next, and by

the time she was ready to go to school on Monday morning, she had fully

made up her mind never to have any more to do with Eva Morrison.

Consequently, when Eva came to meet her with outstretched hands, as

usual, Amy met her with averted eyes, and the coolest of nods, and

going directly to her place, she began to study with all her might.

"What in the world ails Amy?" asked one of the girls, who had seen the

meeting.

"Oh, nothing I guess!" replied Eva, though she wondered at her friend's

manner. "People don't always feel alike, you know!"

"There is more about it than that," said Dora, who had been watching

the meeting. "Only you never will listen to anything, I could tell you

all about the matter."

"Well, what can you tell!" asked Eva, carelessly.

"I shall not say anything unless you promise not to tell, you know."

"I shall not promise, Dora, though it is not likely that I shall tell.

I am not apt to repeat things."

"Well, then, Amy says you are a regular little liar and hypocrite,

and she won't have any more to do with you. She says she has been

patronized by you long enough."

"I did not know that I had patronized her at all," said Eva. "I am sure

I never meant to do so."

"Yes, but then you see Amy is of such a jealous disposition that she

thinks you mean to patronize her, whether you do or not!"

"She is naturally rather jealous, I think," said Eva; "but I can hardly

believe that she called me a liar or a hypocrite!"

"She did, for I heard her!" said Dora. "I was in the store, picking out

a pattern."

Eva might have asked who Amy was talking to, but she did not think of

that.

"Well, all I can say is, that I am sorry!" said she, sighing. "But I

hope Amy will think better of it. I am sure she will if she knows what

is good for herself, for I know she cannot be happy while she is doing

me such an injustice."

"So you really didn't speak to Eva this morning!" said Dora, joining

Amy as she was walking homeward. "I did not bellow you would keep your

resolution, but I was glad you did, especially after what Eva said."

"What did she say?" asked Amy, feeling rather ashamed as she spoke.

"Oh, she tossed her head, and said you had got a jealous fit; but she

guessed you would get over it. You knew what was good for yourself

too well to quarrel with her, and if you did you would get the worst

of it—that was one comfort. You see, she thinks she has you under her

thumb, so she can do as she pleases with you."

"She will find herself mistaken!" said Amy, proudly. "I am not

dependent upon her, I am thankful to say."

"But, after all, Amy, when you are under so many obligations to her—"

"Under what obligations, I should like to know?"

"Why, doesn't she pay your school bills? I understood so."

"Of course not! My mother pays my school bills! What do you mean?"

"Well, Amy, you need not bite my head off. I don't wonder you are

angry. I am sure I should be, but you needn't blame me. Anyhow, if I

were you, I would show that I did not mean to be domineered over, or

coaxed either. 'But Amy has such a way with her—she can twist any one

round her finger,' as she says."

"She will not twist me round her finger," said Amy. "I am not such a

fool as she takes me for."

Eva went home that night very much grieved. She had made many advances

to Amy during the day, but they had all been repelled, and with so much

coldness and rudeness that she did not know how to go any farther. She

did not more than half believe what Dora had told her, and yet the

words were not without their influence upon her mind.

"Amy must know she is wrong," she argued, "and that is what makes her

so unwilling to make up. O dear! I don't know what to do! I believe I

will tell mother all about it, and see what she says."

"How many times have you sighed during the last half hour, Eva?" asked

Mrs. Morrison that evening, as she and Eva were sitting together

knitting by the firelight.

The evenings were growing long and cool, and the open fire seemed very

pleasant and cheerful.

"What is the matter?"

"I don't know, mamma—yes, I do know, too, I suppose!" answered Eva,

rousing herself. "I did not know that I sighed, though."

"Has anything unpleasant happened in school?" asked Mrs. Morrison.

"Yes, mamma—that is, not exactly in school; but something very

unpleasant has happened, and the worst of it is, I don't know what to

do about it."

"Suppose you tell me the story," said Mrs. Morrison. "Perhaps I shall

be able to advise you."

Eva sat down at her mother's feet on the rug, and told her the whole

story as far as she knew it.

"Somebody has been making mischief," was Mrs. Morrison's comment.

"That is what I suppose, mamma, and I think I know who the somebody is.

I believe it is Dora Hayes."

"You should not say so unless you have good reasons," said her mother.

"Why do you think so?"

Eva told her reasons.

"It looks so, certainly," remarked Mrs. Morrison. "Well, Eva, it is

always a great comfort when we can find a plain Scripture rule to guide

our conduct in difficult places, and I think there is one which applies

exactly to such cases as this."

"What do you mean, mamma?"

"'If thy brother trespass against thee go and tell him his fault

between him and thee alone,'" repeated Mrs. Morrison. "Does not that

rule seem to throw some light upon your path?"

"I don't know—yes, I suppose it does. And yet—after the way Amy has

treated me to-day, I do not feel very much like going to her!"

"Take care, Eva! Don't listen to the whispers of pride. Remember you do

not know what provocation Amy may think she has had."

"If she thought I had done wrong, why did not she come and tell me so,

instead of sulking and refusing to speak to me?" said Eva.

"Perhaps she did not feel like it, after the way she thought you had

treated her," said Mrs. Morrison, smiling. "At any rate, Eva, her

conduct is not the rule for yours."

Eva sat silent for a few minutes. She had her pride as well as Amy, and

she had been deeply mortified at the way in which Amy had repelled her

really generous advances.

But Eva had this advantage over her friend, that she called her faults

by their right names and combatted them as faults, instead of coaxing

and nursing them as virtues.

"Well, mamma, I will do as you say," said she, at last. "I believe it

will be the best way. I don't think Amy will refuse to hear me, and if

she does, I shall be no worse off than I am now."

"That is right, my dear," said her mother. "But, Eva, don't forget to

ask for grace to be gentle and humble. Remember 'Charity suffereth long

and is kind.' Even if Amy is unreasonable, do not get out of patience

with her. You do not know what provocation she may think she has

received."

As soon as breakfast was over, Eva put on her hat, and set out to find

Amy. Mrs. Preston lived in a pretty house in the suburbs, and Eva was

tolerably sure of finding Amy at work in her flower-garden, where even

at this late season she always found something to do.

Amy was busy among her flowers, as Eva expected, and just as Eva came

up, Amy opened the side gate to throw some dry stems into the street.

She started when she saw Eva, and seemed about to turn away, but Eva

gave her no time. She walked up to her friend, and holding out both

hands, said, with her usual frank manner: "Now, Amy, I want to have you

tell me what all this trouble is about."

Amy colored. "Surely you know as well as I do!" said she, trying to

speak coldly.

"I know nothing at all!" replied Eva. "Only that Dora Hayes says that

you called me a liar and a hypocrite, and, as she has told me such a

story about you, I think it very likely that she has told you something

about me."

"It was what she told me you said that made me call you so!" said Amy,

just ready to cry.

"So I supposed, and therefore I want to know what it was. Now let us

sit down on the stops and have it all out. What did she say?"

Amy began to feel a little ashamed of herself, by this time, and to see

that she had been hasty to believe evil of her friend. She began at the

beginning and told Eva all that Dora had said about her.

"I thought she had had a hand in it," said Eva, when the story was

finished. "She came to me in the first place and wanted to tell me

something that I was never to tell—something somebody had said about

me; but I told her that I always told mother everything, and that I

never wanted to hear what people said about me, so she subsided. The

truth of the matter is this. Dora was teasing me one day to give her my

amber necklace, which I would not do."

"'You would give it to Amy Preston in a minute, if she asked you,' said

she; 'you think more of that shop-girl than you do of me, though I am

your cousin.'"

"'Well,' said I, half laughing, 'you see, Dora, Amy is a cheaper friend

than you are. She never wants anything and you want everything.'"

"So much for that! As for the dress story, there is a little foundation

for that, too. Dora asked me a few days ago if that was my old dress

you were wearing."

"'Of course,' said I. 'Amy wears all my dresses and I wear hers. That

is the way we show our regard for each other.'"

"'But don't you really give her dresses?' she asked."

"All the girls laughed, for every one knows how proud you are about

receiving presents, Amy."

"And I said, to carry on the joke, 'To be sure I do! I buy all her

clothes and books, and my father pays her school bills.'"

"You see, Amy—though you must not tell any one—papa really does pay

Dora's school bills, and mamma gives her a great many things; and I

thought perhaps by giving her such a hint, I would make her hold her

peace, and so I did. As for the rest, it is a sheer manufacture out of

whole cloth. I should think you ought to have known me better, Amy."

Amy colored scarlet. "Well, Eva, I suppose I ought, but then you

see—there is such a difference—in short you are rich and I am poor, and

if you were in my place, you would see how natural it is to be jealous."

"It may be natural, but I cannot think it's right," said Eva. "I don't

think poor people ought to be jealous of rich people, any more than

rich people ought to despise poor people. Besides, Amy, I should never

think of calling you poor. But did Dora say anything else?"