be back till noon. It is a pity you did not come before, for he has not
been gone more than five minutes."
When Mr. Winter came back, he found his wife's note and sent a message
directly. But it was too late. Aunt Maria had started, and arrived
next day to find Anna broken out with the measles, and another of
the children coming down with the same disease. The baby took it, of
course, and was so ill that its life was despaired of for many days.
Louisa was very sorry, and would gladly have done anything for her aunt
or for baby, but she could not undo the mischief she had done by "just
one minute's" delay.
One would have expected such a severe lesson to do Louisa some good,
but it did not. The truth was that Louisa had not learned to see that
she was in fault. She was "unlucky," she thought: "it always happened
so." She was sure that she was always ready to do anything that was
wanted of her, and she could not understand why her mother should go
for baby's medicine herself, instead of sending her, and why Aunt Maria
would not let her put into the post-office box the letter which carried
the news that baby was at last out of danger.
"Miss Louisa, will you watch these cakes for me while I run out and
pick the beans for dinner?" said Mary the cook, one day.
The girls were going to have a party to celebrate Anna's birthday, and
Mary had been making and frosting some of the most wonderful cakes
in the world. The great table was covered with cocoanut cake, and
chocolate cake, and almond cake, and Mary had just put into the oven a
pan of macaroons.
"The oven is rather hot, and you must watch it, or the cakes will
burn," said Mary. "Just as soon as they begin to brown, open the oven
door and leave it."
Louisa promised, as usual. She had already looked at the cakes once or
twice, and was just going to look again, when she heard the express
man's wagon stop at the gate.
"I do wonder what he has brought this time?" said Louisa to herself.
"I mean to run to the front door and see. It will not take more than a
minute."
Away she ran, leaving the outside door open, and the oven door
shut. The express man had brought a number of parcels, some of them
containing presents for Anna from friends in the city, and of course,
Louisa had to stop "just a minute" to see them opened. Meantime a
beggar woman with a large basket came through the side gate and into
the kitchen. No one was there. Louis had deserted her post, and Mary,
supposing that she was watching the cakes, was looking over the bean
vines and gathering all the beans which were fit to pickle. It was the
work of a moment for the woman to slip the cakes into her big basket
and slip away herself. When Louisa and Mary came back, both at the same
moment, the table was bare and the kitchen full of smoke.
"There now, Miss Louisa, that comes of trusting you!" said Mary, very
much vexed. "I thought you promised to stay and see to my cakes?"
"I only went out just a minute," said Louisa.
"And what has become of all the other cakes?" exclaimed Mary, turning
to the table.
Louisa could only say that she did not know. The cakes were safe when
she went away.
"Who was that woman I saw going out just now?" asked Mrs. Winter, who
had come into the kitchen.
Louisa did not know. She had not seen any woman.
"It was one of those gypsies who are camped over beyond Savin Hill,
I'll be bound!" said Mary. "There is no use in running after her. I
don't see but poor Miss Anna must go without her birthday cake unless
we can send into town and buy some."
"You were very much to blame, Louisa," said Mrs. Winter.
"Why, mamma, I did not know that the woman was coming in."
"That makes no difference. You knew that you had promised to watch the
cakes while Mary was away, and you ought to have kept your word. You
have been guilty of a breach of trust!"
"But, mamma, I only meant to be gone a minute—" Louisa was beginning,
when her mother checked her sharply.
"Hush, Louisa! Don't let me hear that odious excuse again. Suppose
it was only for a minute. Have you any more right to do wrong for a
minute than for a day? You are always saying—'only a minute,' 'just a
minute,' but your minutes are very apt to lengthen into hours. It was
your stopping 'just a minute' when you were sent on an important errand
which almost cost the poor little baby its life, last summer. It is
your stopping 'just a minute' to read or play or do something else to
please yourself, which makes you late at breakfast, at school, and at
church; which makes it impossible to trust you to do the least thing or
to believe your most serious premises."
"Oh, mamma! I don't tell lies!" said Louisa, crying. "I am sure I never
do that."
"I call breaking a promise telling a lie, Louisa. Did you not tell Mary
you would stay in the kitchen till she came back?"
"Well, I meant to stay, mamma, only—" Louisa stopped.
She did not like to say again that she only went out a minute.
"Only you thought of something else you wanted to do, and so broke
your promise. The consequence is that all poor Anna's birthday cake
is stolen or burnt up. I shall have to leave my work, which is very
inconvenient for me, to go into town and buy more; and I shall have to
use for it the money I had set apart for another purpose. You can go
to your own room and stay there till four o'clock. If it were not for
grieving Anna still more, you should not come down again to-day; and
you must not ask me for any more pocket-money till after Thanksgiving."
Louisa went to her room crying bitterly, and feeling as though she had
been very hardly used.
"Why, Louisa, why are you sitting crying up here to-day, of all days in
the year?" asked Aunt Wentworth, Louisa's godmother, who had come out
to Anna's party, and had gone up to Louisa's room to arrange her dress
and cap. "What has happened to cause so much grief?"
"Mamma sent me up here!" sobbed Louisa. "She won't let me come down
till four o'clock, and she says I cannot have one bit of pocket-money
till after Thanksgiving—all of three months—only just because I went to
the door a minute to see what the expressman had brought for Anna."
"Are you sure that was all?" asked Aunt Wentworth, who, like all the
family, had had experience of Louisa's fault. "Was there no more than
that about it?"
"Well, I couldn't help it!" replied Louisa, blushing a little. "How
could I know that the beggar woman would come into the kitchen and
steal the cake, or that the other cakes would burn?"
"Oh!" said Aunt Wentworth. "I begin to understand. You were left in the
kitchen to take care of the cake, which was stolen. Is that it?"
"Mary did not say anything about the cakes on the table," persisted
Louisa, "she only told me to watch the cakes in the oven."
"Well, and what then?"
"I just went through to the front door a minute to see what the
expressman had brought for Anna, and while I was gone the cakes in the
oven burned up, and a woman came in and stole all the rest of them. I
am sure I could not help that!"
"But, Louisa, don't you see that if you had done your duty in watching
the cakes in the oven, the cakes on the table would not have been
stolen?"
Louisa did not know. She only knew it was very hard to be punished just
for running to the front door a minute.
"Louisa, you are very much in fault," said Aunt Wentworth, gravely.
"You know that you have done wrong, and yet, instead of being sorry,
you are trying to justify yourself and throw all the blame on somebody
else. Now, tell me, did you not promise to watch the cakes in the oven?
Answer yes or no. Don't begin 'I only.' Did you not promise?"
"Yes, I did, then," said Louisa, sullenly.
"And is it not wrong to break a promise."
"I didn't mean to break it."
"But you did break it," interrupted Aunt Wentworth; "so how can you say
you did not mean to? You did not certainly go away out of the kitchen
without meaning it. That is impossible. You promised to watch, and you
did not watch—that is, you broke a promise. Was not that wrong? Is not
breaking a promise without reason the same thing as telling a lie?"
Louisa writhed and fidgetted. "I only meant to be gone a minute. It was
not as if I had gone away to stay."
"That makes no difference, Louisa. You have no more right to sin for a
minute than you have to sin for an hour, or a day. Besides your minutes
never are minutes. I know how it was with your music when you used
to come to our house to practise. You would take up a story-book for
just a minute, and half your practise hour would be gone before you
had touched the piano. The fact is that you cannot wilfully do wrong
for 'just a minute.' You might just as well set the house on fire and
expect it to burn 'just a minute.' What would you think of a sentinel
in war time who should admit the enemy into the camp to stay 'just a
minute.' When you commit a wilful sin, you make yourself the servant of
sin."
"I don't see any great sin in just going to the door a minute!" said
Louisa.
"The sin was not in going to the door, but in breaking your promise, as
you know perfectly well," said Aunt Wentworth. "I do not at all wonder
that your mother is angry with you, Louisa. You not only do not try to
get the better of your fault, but you justify yourself in it: and I
tell you, in all seriousness, that it is a fault which will ruin your
character if you do not try to break yourself of it."
"It has come to that now that nobody can trust you to do the least
thing. If you are sent on an errand, there is no certainty of your
being in time. If you are set about any piece of work, however
necessary, you are more likely than not to neglect it and to disappoint
those who depend on you. You are losing your standing in school,
instead of gaining, and you are a perpetual worry and discomfort to
all around you: and all because of this miserable habit of indulging
yourself 'just a minute' in doing what you know to be wrong. As I said,
I do not wonder that your mother is displeased, or that she punishes
you. The matter is growing very serious, and I tell you, my child,
unless you repent and amend in time, your life will be a miserable
failure, not only in this world but in that which is to come."
Aunt Wentworth was a very old lady, and one to whom all the family
looked up with great respect. She very seldom reproved the children of
her nieces, for she was one who understood to perfection the difficult
art of minding her own business, and she was very indulgent and kind to
young people.
Louisa had been cherishing a secret hope that Aunt Wentworth would
intercede with her mother, and, as she said, "beg her off." But Aunt
Wentworth had no intention of doing anything of the kind. She knew
how serious Louisa's fault was, and that her mother would never have
treated her so severely for one single instance of forgetfulness.
For some time after the birthday party, Louisa was more careful. She
found it very unpleasant to be without spending money week after week,
especially as Aunt Wentworth did not fill up her purse, as sometimes
happened, when she went to visit the old lady.
There was another thing which annoyed her even more, and that was the
fact that nobody asked her to do anything or accepted her services
when offered. She felt that she was not trusted, and this was a worse
punishment even than the loss of her pocket-money. She really tried
hard to overcome her faults, and she succeeded so well that by-and-by
she found herself once more trusted to do errands and other services by
her mother and sisters.
But just here it was that Louisa made a great mistake. She thought
because she had gained a few victories over her enemy that she was
safe, and might relax her guard. She left off watching and praying
against her faults, and presently she began to indulge in those "just
a minute" readings of story-books and magazines when she ought to have
been dressing, or reading her Bible, or learning her lessons—those
"just a minute" loiterings, which made her late for school, and those
"just a minute" longer morning naps which left her no time to ask God's
blessing upon the duties and events of the day.
This was the state of the case when Louisa went to make a little visit
to her mother's cousin, Mrs. James Perceval. It was always a treat to
go and visit Cousin Frances, not only because she was a very lovely
woman, but because she lived in a beautiful old place in the country,
only a mile from a famous bathing beach. The house was, in fact, Aunt
Wentworth's country-house, but the old lady only went out there for
a few weeks in summer, and Cousin Frances kept the house open and in
order the rest of the year.
Cousin Frances had been very unfortunate with her children. Three or
four of them had died before reaching their third year, and one had
been killed by a terrible accident. She had now only two remaining—a
delicate, sweet little girl of four years old, and a baby not quite
two. Louisa was fond of all children and especially of Milly, and as
she was always ready to play with and amuse the little one in her own
fashion—to play with the dolls, give tea-parties, and "make believe,"
to any extent, it is no wonder that both Milly and Milly's mamma loved
her dearly.
It happened one day that Captain Perceval came with a carriage to ask
his wife to ride with him.
"I should like to go very much," said Cousin Frances, "but nurse has
gone into town for the day, and the other servants are busy, so I have
no one with whom to leave the children."
"You can take Frank with you," said her husband; "and I am sure Louisa
will take care of Milly."
"Of course I will!" said Louisa. "Do go, Cousin Frances; the ride will
do you so much good."
Cousin Frances still looked rather doubtful.
"I don't wonder that you are anxious about your children, my dear,"
said her husband; "but surely Louisa can take care of Milly for an
hour. Louisa is almost a woman now, and if she cannot be trusted for so
long a time as that, what will she ever be good for?"
At last Cousin Frances consented to go, but the gave Louisa many
charges about Milly.
"Be sure you keep her in sight all the time, and do not let her run
about the grounds. It rained hard last night and the grass is very wet."
Louisa promised, and Cousin Frances went away. For the first half hour
Milly played contentedly upon the veranda with her dolls and books and
her pet rabbits, while Louisa worked at the sofa cushion she was making
for Aunt Wentworth's birthday. Presently Louisa found she had mislaid
some of her wool.
"What have I done with those shades of gray? Oh, I know! I left them in
the summer-house last night. I hope they have not got wet. Now, Milly,
you stay here and play, and I will be back in a minute."
"Why can't I go?" asked Milly.
"Because it is too wet for you. Just stay here and I will be back
before you can count twenty."
Milly sat down very obediently and counted twenty two or three times,
and still Louisa did not come back. Then the rabbit escaped from her
and ran into the grass. Picture-book in hand, Milly pursued him, and
after quite a chase, in which her shoes and stockings were wet through,
she succeeded in capturing him. Then finding herself in a shady place
among the trees, she sat down on the ground, and began to turn over the
leaves of her picture-book, the rabbit sitting contentedly in her lap.
Meantime Louisa reached the pretty little Swiss cottage called the
summer-house, where she found her worsted uninjured. Unluckily she
also found something else—namely, a new book of travels with beautiful
wood-cuts, which had been left there the night before.
"There now!" said Louisa, in a tone of triumph. "If I had done that,
what a fuss there would have been! I mean to leave it here just to see
what a hunt there will be for it. I just want to look at that picture
of the leaf-butterfly a minute."
In looking for the leaf-butterfly, Louisa found many other wonderful
things, and she lingered, looking at picture after picture, till the
ringing of the noon-bell roused her. She hastened back to the house,
but Milly was nowhere to be seen. She was not in the house nor yet in
the garden. Louisa had not found her when Cousin Frances drove up.
"Where is Milly?" was of course the first question, and Louisa was
obliged to confess that she did not know.
She had left her safely seated on the steps while she went for some
worsted, and when she came back the child was gone.
"You were away more than a minute, Miss Louisa," said the housemaid,
"for I came out here twice and did not see you. I supposed you had
taken Milly up-stairs."
"I went to the summer-house for my wool," said Louisa. "I did not mean
to be gone more than a minute."
"But you were gone all of half an hour," said the housemaid.
"Surely it did not take all that time to find your worsted!" said
Cousin Frances.
"I took up a book just a minute," said Louisa, reluctantly.
"O yes, there it is!" said Cousin Frances. "But I cannot stop to talk
now. I must go and find Milly. I might have known better than to trust
your word, Louisa, but I was led to think you had improved."
After a long search, Milly was found where we left her. She had been
sitting on the damp grass for about an hour, with her shoes and
stockings wringing wet. She told her story very artlessly of how Cousin
Louisa did not come back, and she got tired of waiting, "and then the
rabbit ran away, and I ran after him, and when I caught him, I was
tired and sat down to rest. I did not mean to be naughty, mamma," said
the little girl, with a grieved face. "Mamma did not tell Milly not to
run after the rabbit."
"No, my darling," said Cousin Frances. "If I had told you, you would
have minded me. Louisa, did you not promise me not to leave the child?"
For once Louisa had nothing to say for herself, and did not try, even
in her own mind, to excuse her conduct.
Milly was undressed directly, but before she could be put into bed, she
complained of being very cold, and was presently attacked with a severe
chill and pains in her head and chest. Before night, it became plain
that Milly had inflammation of the lungs, and the next day her life was
despaired of.
Never was any one more wretched than Louisa. She went home the same
day, for though Captain Perceval was a Christian man and tried to
forgive as he would be forgiven, he could not bear the sight of one
who had, as it seemed, been the cause of his child's death. Of course
Louisa's father and mother had to hear the story—indeed Louisa herself
told her mother all about the matter, with many bitter tears.
"I shall always feel as if I had killed little Milly!" said she.
"Cousin James said my faithlessness had caused her death, and I believe
it is true."
"I am afraid so!" said Mrs. Grey, sadly. "I have always feared that
your besetting sin would lead to some terrible consequences. I hoped
you had seen it in its true light and were trying to conquer it."
"I thought I had conquered it, mamma," said Louisa. "I thought I had
got all over it!"
"And so you left off watching and praying against it, did you not?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Oh, Louisa, that was a great mistake! You ought never to leave off
watching and praying against your faults, for you can never be sure you
have quite conquered, especially when a bad habit has been indulged as
long as yours has been."
"But what shall I do now, mamma?" sobbed Louisa. "There is no use in
my trying any more, now that I have killed poor Milly. I am afraid God
will never forgive me."
"You must not think so, my poor child. I hope dear Milly may be spared
to our prayers, but even if she is not, you must not despair of God's
forgiveness. 'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as
snow.'"
"But, mamma, I have been wicked so long! And I have done wrong on
purpose. I have always known it was wrong to waste my time so, and to
indulge myself in everything I wanted to do, excusing myself by saying
that it was only for a minute. I knew all the time it was wrong to
leave Milly alone so long, and yet I did it because I wanted to look at
the book."
"That is what I have always told you, Louisa—that you were indulging
in wilful sin. Now that you are sensible of your fault, I shall have
more hopes of you than ever before. Do not distrust God's mercy,
whatever you do, for that in itself is a great sin, but humbly ask His
forgiveness for Jesus Christ's sake. Ask that your sins may be washed
away in His blood, and that you may have the help of the Holy Spirit to
keep you from sinning again!"
"Do you think He really will hear me, mamma?"
"My dear, I have no more doubt of it than I have that I am alive," said
her mother.
"But even if He does, that will not bring poor Milly to life again!"
said Louisa, despairingly.
"Milly is not dead yet, my dear, and it may be that God will spare her
in answer to our prayers. But even if He does not see fit to do so, it
is no less your duty to ask His forgiveness and to trust in His mercy
for the future. You must not throw away the rest of your life, because
you have failed so far."
"Good news, good news, mamma! Good news, Louisa!" cried Anna, coming in
a few days after, with a beaming face. "Cousin James has just been at
the office to say that Milly is out of danger. The doctor says she will
get well. And oh, Louis, Milly begs to see you all the time, and Cousin
James wants you to comp out to L— this afternoon. He will meet you at
the station."
Louisa looked at her mother, and then rising, she went into her own
room and shut the door. She did not come out for an hour, and when she
did, her eyes were red with crying, but her face was calm and happy.
"Oh, mamma!" she whispered, as she was going away, "I have always heard
that God was good, but I never really felt it before!"
"We will say nothing about the past, Louisa," said Cousin James that
night, as Louisa, with trembling words, began to speak of the cause of
Milly's illness. "Let by-gones be by-gones; but let what has happened
be a lesson to you all your life. God has kindly spared us our little
darling, and saved you especially from a great sorrow. Show by your
actions that you are sensible of His goodness."
"Indeed, Cousin James, I hope I shall do so," said Louisa, with tears.
"I said this morning that if Milly only lived, I would try never even
for a moment to do what I knew to be wrong."
"That is an excellent resolution, Louisa. But you must remember that
you can never keep it in your own strength. You must constantly pray
for the help of the Holy Spirit, and you must constantly and faithfully
watch against the first beginning of temptation. You will no doubt find
the bad habit all the harder to break off because you have indulged it
so long; but you have every encouragement to persevere, and if you do
so, I have no doubt you will, in time, become a useful Christian woman."
[Illustration]