nursing that grudge against her for these two years, and then made up
my mind so grandly to forgive what never happened. I feel like a fool,
Aunt Margaret."
"Feeling like a fool is often the first step to wisdom, Martha."
Before another spring came round, Betty Allis was laid to sleep in the
grave, in the sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. Her fears
of death all passed away before the time of her summons came, and she
died in the utmost peace.
Martha spent much time with her during her last illness, and when at
last Betty was taken away, she looked back with wonder and shame to
the days when she could see nothing but evil in one so gentle and
kindhearted.
[Illustration: MARY, OR, "SHE MADE ME DO IT." Frontispiece.]
[Illustration]
MARY,
OR,
"SHE MADE ME DO IT."
"SEE that woman coming down the road!" said Mary Willis to her
companions. "Isn't she a funny-looking body?"
"She has just come off the cars, I suppose," said another girl. "Look
at her bonnet. I should think it had been made before the flood."
"Poor thing, she looks very tired," said Helen Arnold: "and see how
lame the little boy is. She seems to be a stranger in town."
"Go and make acquaintance with her, Helen," said Cora Hart, with a
sneer. "She is so fashionably dressed and so elegant looking, she would
be a nice companion for you."
"See, she is coming this way!" exclaimed Jane Marvin. "I do believe she
means to speak to us. Let us have some fun with her, girls!"
"I will have nothing to do with such fun as yours!" said Helen Arnold.
"I think it is downright mean and wicked to make sport of poor and old
people. Mary Willis, you had better come home with me and be out of
mischief."
"Oh, of course she will!" said Jane, scornfully. "I should like to know
why Mary Willis is to do as you say. You are neither her teacher nor
her mistress, if you are the teacher's niece, and the oldest girl in
the class. You stay here, Mary, and show her that you won't be ordered
about by her."
"Come, Mary," said Helen, again. "You had much better be going home
with me."
Helen spoke rather sharply, and Mary was vexed.
"I shall go home when I please, Miss Helen Arnold! I will thank you to
mind your own business and let me alone."
"Very well!" replied Helen, and she walked away, feeling both grieved
and angry.
She was very fond of Mary Willis, though Mary was much younger than
herself. She helped her in her lessons, dressed her dolls for her, and
taught her how to make pretty things for them; for Helen was very quick
and skilful in all sorts of work. She was anxious that Mary should be a
good girl and a good scholar, and she did keep her out of a great deal
of trouble which Mary's quick temper and readiness to be led away would
have brought upon her.
For a long time Mary had loved Helen more than any one else in the
world, except her own mother. But when Jane Marvin came to school,
she began, as she said, to put Mary up to be jealous of Helen. She
told Mary that Helen did not really care for her, and that she only
wished to govern and patronize her, and so show off her own goodness.
She laughed at Helen's plain cheap dress and what she called her
old-fashioned strict ways, and she told Mary that Helen was a regular
little Methodist, and wanted to make her so. Jenny had never been in a
Methodist church in her life, and knew nothing about them, but she had
heard her father call people Methodists who were religious and strict
in their conduct.
It may seem strange that Mary should listen to such talk against her
best friend; but Mary had a great idea of being independent and having
her own way: and like many other people of the same sort, she was ready
to be made a fool of by any one who would take the trouble to flatter
her. This Helen never did; nay, I am afraid that in her desire to be
honest, she sometimes went to the other extreme and found fault with
Mary when there was no reason for doing so.
If Mary had thought a little, she would have seen one great difference
between Helen and Jenny. Helen never asked her for anything, and if she
happened to borrow a sheet of paper or a steel pen from Mary's store,
she was always careful to return it. Mary's mother was rich and Mary
had a great abundance of pretty and useful things. She would often
have liked to divide with Helen, for she had a generous disposition:
but except at Christmas and on her birthday, Helen would never accept
presents.
Jenny was very different. She not only took all that was offered her,
but she had no scruple in begging for anything in Mary's desk or
play-room to which she took a fancy. Mary's paper and pens, Mary's
thread and needles, Mary's lunch basket, she used as if they were her
own, and she had already got possession of some of Mary's prettiest and
most expensive toys. Still Mary could see no fault in her new friend,
and she was very much vexed at her mother because she would hardly ever
ask Jenny to tea, and would never let her go to Mr. Marvin's to stay
all night.
Helen went away feeling very much hurt, and Mary stayed with Jenny and
the other girls. The poor woman walked slowly toward them, and when she
came opposite she crossed over the street to speak to them.
"Can any of you tell me where Mrs. Willis lives?" she asked, in a
sweet, pleasant voice. Her clothes were old-fashioned and worn but she
looked and spoke like a lady.
Mary was starting forward to answer her, when Cora Hart pulled her back
and at the same moment Jane answered, glibly:
"Mrs. Willis? Yes, ma'am, she lives in that white house up there on the
hill," pointing as she spoke to a farm-house which stood about half a
mile away upon the side of a steep hill.
"Does she live as far from the village as that?" asked the stranger. "I
thought her house was quite near the church."
"She did live near the church," said Jane; "but her house was burned
down, and she moved away up there. It is a beautiful place, but rather
far-away from the village, and the hill is pretty steep. If you go
round the corner by that yellow building with the stairs outside you
will be in the road."
The lady thanked her for her information and turned into the street
which Jenny had pointed out as leading up to the white house.
"There she goes, trudging along with her bundles," said Jenny, bursting
out laughing. "I hope she will find Mrs. Willis at home!"
"Mary was for telling her right away," said Cora. "She would have
spoiled all the fun, if I had not stopped her. What do you suppose she
wants with your mother, Mary?"
"I dare say she is some beggar woman," answered Mary. "We have heaps of
them coming to our house all the time."
"I should think you did!" said Jane, scornfully. "I don't see how your
mother can encourage them. I do despise beggars!"
"Two of a trade never agree, oh, Martha?" said Cora.
"What do you mean by that, Cora Hart?" asked Jane, angrily.
But Cora only laughed scornfully and did not answer.
"Well, for my part, I think it was a real mean trick!" said Julia
Davis. "Sending the poor woman all the way up that steep hill to an
empty house. I wish I had just told her the truth."
"Why didn't you, then?" asked Jane. "Nobody hindered you, Miss
Tell-tale; only just let me catch you getting me into a scrape, that's
all!"
Julia turned away and went into her own gate without saying a word.
She felt very much ashamed of herself, for she knew she had been a
coward—she had been afraid to do what she knew was right.
Mary also felt uneasy as she went home. She had been taught her duty
towards her neighbor, and she knew right from wrong. All the time she
was eating her nice supper, she thought of the poor woman with her
little lame boy toiling up the steep road only to find an empty house.
"Helen Arnold would never have done such a thing!" she said to herself,
and she wished over and over again that she had gone with Helen.
It was a pleasant, dry evening, and after tea, Mrs. Willis took her
work and sat down in a garden chair on the green lawn. Mary stood by
her with her doll, but she did not feel like playing or talking. Her
conscience troubled her more and more, and she felt very unhappy.
"I have some good news for you, Mary," said Mrs. Willis. "You have
often heard me talk of your godmother, your father's sister, who
married a missionary and went away to China."
"O yes, mamma!" replied Mary. "I have always wished to see her so much.
You know she sent me that beautiful box of shells and curiosities."
And then Mary sighed as she thought how Jenny had begged from her some
of the prettiest things, and rarest curiosities in the box.
"Well, my love, I think you will see her very soon. I had a letter from
her this afternoon, in which she says she expects to sail the next week
for America and will come directly to us. She has a little boy who is
lame, and she is bringing him home to see if he can be cured."
"How glad I am!" said Mary. "I have so often looked at her picture—the
one you said she painted herself, when she was teaching you to draw,
mamma—and wished she would come home."
Mrs. Willis smiled and sighed. "You must not expect to see Aunt Mary
looking like her picture," said she. "It was painted long ago, when we
were both young, and she has been through a great deal since then."
Mrs. Willis sighed, and looked down on the ground. She was thinking of
all that had happened since she had seen her dear sister—how she had
lost her husband and all her children but Mary. Mary stood leaning on
her mother's chair without speaking, till the sound of the opening gate
caused her to look up. There, coming in at the gate, was that very poor
woman and her little boy, whom Jane Marvin and her companions had sent
"on a fool's errand," as the saying is, to the empty farm-house on the
hill.
Before she could make up her mind what to do, Mrs. Willis looked up
also, and met the gaze of the stranger. With a scream of delight, she
started up and flew to meet her, kissing her and calling her, her dear,
precious sister, her darling sister Mary!
"Come here, Mary, and see your aunt," said her mother, turning round.
Mary came forward. She trembled so that she could hardly stand, and she
was very pale, but her mother did not notice her confusion.
"Now run into the house and tell Jane to get tea ready as quickly as
she can," said. Mrs. Willis. "And this is my nephew and god-son Willie.
But how lame he is, poor little fellow!"
"He is not always so lame," said Mrs. Lee. "But we have had a long and
hard walk and he is almost tired to death. I am afraid he will not be
able to stir to-morrow."
"I did not expect you till next week, at the earliest," said Mrs.
Willis. "But how do you come to arrive at this time of day? The train
has been in for two hours."
"I will tell you all about it, presently," replied Mrs. Lee. "Just
now I am anxious to find a resting-place for Willie, who, I fear, is
suffering very much from his knee."
"It does ache!" said poor Willie. "It always hurts me to go up-hill."
"Well, you shall soon rest it, my dear boy," said Mrs. Willis. "Where
are your trunks, Mary?"
"They will be here to-morrow, I suppose," replied her sister. "They
were left behind by some mistake, but I have telegraphed and heard that
they are safe and on the way. I must keep out of sight till they come,
for between dust and the long journey I look more like a beggar than a
lady."
The travellers were soon washed and brushed and sat down to a bountiful
meal.
"And now tell me how you came here at this time in the evening?" said
Mrs. Willis.
"The matter is easily enough explained," replied Mrs. Lee. "We sailed
a week sooner than we expected and had an uncommonly short voyage. We
came directly on from Boston, and arrived on the train at four o'clock."
"But where have you been since?" asked Mrs. Willis.
"I am sorry to say we have been made the victims of a most malicious
trick," replied Mrs. Lee. "There were no carriages at the station, and
I thought I could find your house easily enough. Meeting a party of
school-girls, I asked them the way, that I might be sure, and was told
by one of them that your house had been burned and that you had moved
into a house which she pointed out on the hill-side. If I had known how
far it was I should have gone to the hotel, where, of course, I should
have been set right."
"But as it was, Willie and I toiled all the way up the steep rough road
to find ourselves at an empty, deserted and half-ruined house. Poor
Willie broke down entirely, and I felt very much like doing the same,
for we had travelled all night and were tired out. I hardly know what
we should have done but for a good-natured teamster, who stopped to
water his horses at the trough by the gate. I made some inquiries of
him, and he not only set me right, but insisted on bringing me back to
the village. Poor Willie is quite discouraged at his first experience
in a Christian land, and wants to go back to China."
"I do not wonder!" said Mrs. Willis.
"I did not believe there was a girl in the village who would do such a
wicked thing. Who do you suppose it could have been, Mary?"
Mary, in her corner of the sofa, murmured something, she hardly knew
what. She was wishing that she were in China, or anywhere else out of
the sight of her mother and aunt. Oh, if she had only gone with Helen!
If she had only been brave enough to defy Jane, and set her aunt right!
But there was no use in wishing.
"She was a short and rather dark girl, with a great deal of curling
black hair, and bold black eyes," said Mrs. Lee. "There were several
others with her, but I did not notice them so as to be able to know
them again."
"It must have been Jane Marvin, I am sure," said Mrs. Willis.
She turned to Mary as she spoke, and observed her confusion. Could it
be that her daughter had been engaged in the trick? At that moment her
attention was diverted by poor Willie, who had been trying in vain to
eat, and who now, overcome by fatigue and pain, fainted away in his
chair. Mrs. Willis saw him carried up-stairs and made as comfortable as
he could be, and then returned to the parlor, where Mary was curled up
in the corner of the sofa, crying as if her heart would break.
"Now, Mary, I want to know all that you can tell me about this matter!"
said Mrs. Willis, seating herself by Mary. "Tell me the whole truth."
Sobbing so that she could hardly speak, Mary told her mother the story.
"It is one of the most shameful things I ever heard of!" said Mrs.
Willis. "How could you join in such a piece of wickedness?"
"I did not say anything, mamma," sobbed Mary.
"No, but by your silence, you consented to what Jane said, when you
might have prevented all this trouble by speaking."
"I was going to tell Aunt Mary at first, but the girls pulled me back
and would not let me," said Mary, hanging her head.
"Would not let you!" repeated Mrs. Willis. "How did they hinder you?"
Mary had no answer ready, and her mother continued:
"Where was Helen Arnold? I should have expected something better of
her."
"She was not there, mamma," replied Mary, eagerly. "She went away
before Jane began. She wanted me to go with her, but I was vexed and
would not. Oh, if I had only minded her!"
"If you had only minded your own conscience and your own sense of
what was right, you would not have needed Helen to keep you out or
mischief," said Mrs. Willis. "If you had had one thought of doing as
you would be done by, you would not have allowed a wicked, silly girl
to send your aunt and your poor lame cousin Willie on such an errand."
"I did not know she was my aunt," said Mary.
"That makes no difference, Mary. You knew she was a woman with a child,
and the fact that you thought you were playing a trick upon a poor
person makes your fault worse instead of better. Nor do I think you
mend the matter by saying that you did not speak a word. You ought to
have spoken, especially when the woman inquired for your own mother."
"I know it was wicked and mean, mamma," said Mary. "I have been sorry
ever since. I wish Jane Marvin had never come here!" she added,
bursting into tears again. "She is always making me do bad things and
leading me into mischief!"
"That is sheer nonsense, Mary. Jane could not make you do anything you
did not choose, nor lead you where you did not choose to go. If you had
been so very easily led, you would have been governed by Helen, whom
you have known three times as long as you have known Jane, and whom you
have every reason to love and trust."
"You have done very wrong, Mary—very wrong, indeed," continued Mrs.
Willis, after a moment's silence. "I cannot excuse what you have done
by throwing the blame on Jane. Every one of the party who allowed the
cruel imposition to go on was guilty of helping on the cheat. I shall
see that Miss Lyman is informed in the morning of the way in which her
pupils amuse themselves, and you must expect to take your share of the
blame. Now go to bed, and when you say your prayers, ask God to forgive
your mean and cruel conduct."
"Won't you forgive me, and kiss me, mamma?" sobbed Mary.
"When I see that you are sensible of your fault, Mary. At present you
seem inclined to throw the blame entirely upon somebody else, and to
think you are to be excused because 'somebody made you' do what you
knew was wicked and cruel."
Mary went away to bed crying bitterly. She had never been so miserable
in all her life. It was not the first time she had been "made" by Jane
to do wrong. She had done things in Jane's company which she was both
afraid and ashamed to have her mother know; but she had always excused
herself by thinking they were all Jane's faults.
Now, as she thought about the matter, she saw how useless and vain
were all such excuses. If she was so easily led, why had she not been
governed by Helen, whom she had known more years than she had known
Jane months, who was always ready to give up her own convenience for
her sake, and whom she had never known to do a mean action? Why was she
not as easily led to do right as to do wrong?
Mary learned more about herself that wretched night than she had ever
known before. She had always known that she was a sinner—now she felt
it, which is quite a different thing. She thought of all the wrong
things she had done lately—the whispering, and reading story-books in
prayer-time, the playing truant from school and lying to conceal it—the
mysterious private talks about things of which she ought never to have
thought; much less spoken—the secrets kept from her mother, to whom
she used to tell everything. Mary no longer tried to excuse herself.
She felt her own wickedness, and with real repentance asked her
Heavenly rather to forgive her for Christ's sake. Then feeling a little
comforted, she went to sleep.
She was awakened in the night by her mother sending for Doctor Arnold.
Poor Willie was very ill—so ill that for several days no one thought
he would live. Oh, how miserable Mary was! She could find no comfort
except in running up and down-stairs and waiting upon her aunt and
Willie. Dr. Arnold had been informed of the cause of Willie's illness,
and the next morning he came into school and told Miss Lyman the
whole story, before the minister and all the scholars. All the girls
concerned in the trick were obliged to beg Aunt Mary's pardon, and were
not allowed any recess for the rest of the term.
Mr. Marvin took Jane out of school, and every one was glad when she was
gone, for nobody loved her, not even those who had been the most ready
to be governed by her. I am glad to say, however, that Jane herself was
sorry when she found out how much harm she had done, and that she had
almost caused the death of poor Willie. She went of her own accord and
begged his pardon, when he was well enough to see her, and she gladly
spent hours in reading to him and amusing him.
But she could not undo the mischief she had done. The lame knee, which
might perhaps have been made well, was so strained and inflamed by the
long rough walk that it could not be cured, and Willie never walked
again without crutches.
Jane learned a great deal from the gentle little Christian boy and his
kind mother, and I hope she will grow up a good, useful woman. I think,
after all, there was more excuse for her than for Mary. Jane had never
known the care and teaching of a good mother. Her mother died when she
was a little baby, and she had been brought up by servants and by her
father, who was a foolish and bad man. She had always heard him laugh
at the Bible as an old book of fables, and at religious people as fools
or knaves, and she naturally took her notion from him.
Mary, on the contrary, had every pains taken with her. She had been
taught her duty towards God and her neighbor, she had the kindest of
mothers, of teachers, and friends, who all tried to influence her for
good.
Girls, when you are ready to excuse yourselves for doing wrong by
saying somebody "made you," think whether your words are true, and
whether if "somebody" had tried to "make you" do right, you would have
been as easily led. Remember that God sees your heart, and He will
accept no false excuses; and while He is always ready to give you His
Holy Spirit to guide you, you have no right to let any human being
"make you" do wrong.
"My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: LOUISA, OR, "JUST ONE MINUTE." Frontispiece.]
[Illustration]
LOUISA,
OR,
"JUST ONE MINUTE!"
"COME, Louisa, are you ready? The car will be here directly."
"In just one minute," replied Louisa, throwing down the book she had
taken up for "just one minute," while she was getting ready for school,
and hastening to put on her hat and gloves.
But in that minute the street-car passed. There was not another car for
twelve minutes. Then the drawbridge was raised for the passage of a
ship, which made a delay of ten minutes more.
The consequence of all these delays was, that though they walked
themselves out of breath, Louisa and her little sister Anna were ten
minutes too late for school, and poor Anna got a bad mark for no fault
of her own except her good-nature in waiting for her sister.
Louisa was in many respects a good girl. She was amiable, truthful,
and very obliging, yet she made more trouble and caused more
disappointments than any other person in the family. She was much
brighter than her sister Anna, and yet she "missed" in school three
times to Anna's one. Louisa was truthful, and yet she was not to be
trusted: she was obliging, yet she often disobliged those whom she
tried to help, and if she was not fretful herself, she was very often
the cause of fretfulness in others. All these seeming contradictions
are easily explained. The answer to the riddle lay in Louisa's favorite
phrase, "just one minute."
For instance. An important message was to go to papa's office and there
was nobody to carry it but Louisa. Aunt Maria had written to say that
she was coming to make a visit and bring her baby; but the measles were
prevailing in D—, and as the baby was a delicate little thing it would
not do to have her exposed to the disease. Papa had gone to his office
in the city before Aunt Maria's letter came.
"I must write a note to papa and ask him to send a telegraphic dispatch
to auntie," said Mrs. Winter; "and you, Louisa, must carry it, for Anna
is not well enough to go out. Now, can I depend upon you to go straight
to papa's office?"
"Yes, mamma, of course I will!"
Louisa meant what she said, and for once she was ready for the car when
it came along. But, unluckily, to reach her father's office, she had
to pass a toy shop, the window of which almost always presented some
new attraction, and had many a time delayed Louisa. She did not mean to
stop this time, but only to look at the window in passing. But behold,
there was a grand new baby-house with the most wonderful rosewood
furniture, and such a kitchen as was never seen in a dolls' house
before; and there was her school-mate Jennie Atridge, looking through
the glass.
"Oh, Louisa, just look here!" she exclaimed, as she saw Louisa. "Just
see what a splendid doll's house! Mamma has promised me one for my
birthday. I wonder if she will buy this?"
"I have got a doll's house, but it is not furnished," said Louisa,
stopping "just a minute," to look in at the window. "We are going to
buy the furniture next week, if Anna gets well enough to come into
town. She has been sick two days with a bad cold. I wonder if we could
get such a stove as that?"
"I would rather have a range," said Jennie. "See, there is a nice one
over in that corner."
The "just a minute" lengthened out into ten, while the girls discussed
the furniture, and when Louisa reached the office she found her father
had gone out.