"I wish Frank would not make such a fuss about those stupid boys who are
coming to-day," said Dora, as he left the room when breakfast was ended,
expressing his great delight that Monday morning was at length arrived,
and begging them all to make a point of coming down to the lake in the
afternoon to see the skating; "it is bad enough to have a number of
strange girls here, but really to be worried with rude boys is more than
any one can bear."
"Perhaps they are not rude," said Amy.
"Yes, but they are," replied Dora. "I am sure they must be rude and
awkward; I cannot bear them."
"But Frank, you can bear him."
"Oh, that is quite a different thing--not but what he is a torment
sometimes; but I do not want to talk about them now. Margaret, please,
don't go away; just help me to settle how we are to amuse ourselves when
the people come. I have had such a lecture from mamma this morning about
making ourselves agreeable."
"Dear me, I don't know," said Margaret; "let them take care of
themselves; I daresay they will find something to do."
"There is the conjurer for Wednesday," observed Dora, thoughtfully; "but
there are two days to that, and what shall we do with them till then?"
"Really," said Miss Cunningham, "I should think there would be quite
sufficient amusement in being here and seeing the house; for you told me
the other day they none of them lived in such a large place."
"Yes," said Margaret, "to be sure they can go over the house, and round
the grounds."
"Round the grounds!" exclaimed Dora; "why it is going to snow hard."
"Well," replied Margaret, "I should never trouble myself about it
beforehand; when they come they will amuse themselves, and if they do
not like it they need not come again."
"That is not my way," continued Dora; "it would not be very agreeable to
be told they had had a stupid visit at the house of the first gentleman
in the county. We must have more ways of entertaining them than they can
have at home."
"I can't think, though, what they are," said Amy; "but I daresay you
will recollect something when the time comes; and you know, Dora, though
I could not talk to any one of them as you can, I could play with the
little ones."
"Ah! but I do not mind the little ones," said Dora; "they will be very
happy with a doll, and Emily Morton will take care of them; but there
are two or three great ones, the Miss Stanleys and Miss Warner, who have
always been at school; I have not seen them, and I know they are coming
early; people always do come early when one does not want them;"
and Dora looked at Miss Cunningham, and thought of the last Saturday
morning.
"We might talk for ever," said Margaret, "and it would be no good, and
really I have no time to think about it now. Do, Lucy, come to my room,
and look at that dress which you said could be altered like yours.
Morris will have no time if it is not given her this morning, and I must
go and talk to mamma before it is begun."
"That is just like you, Margaret," said Dora, "you never will help me;
but mamma says you must try this afternoon, so it will be no use for you
and Lucy to shut yourselves up in your room; you must come down, or she
will be very angry."
Amy saw that Dora was gradually becoming extremely annoyed, and
earnestly longed to soothe her, but she was rather afraid to interfere;
she did, however, venture to say, that perhaps some of them might be
fond of reading, and then there would be less trouble.
"Oh yes!" exclaimed Margaret, who did not quite like to go and yet was
very unwilling to stay, "that will just do, Amy; they shall read, and
then they will all be quite comfortable, and we may go our own way; I am
so glad that matter is settled, I do so hate trouble and fuss."
"So we do all," said Dora, angrily, as Margaret hastily ran out of the
room; "only some people are forced to take it. That plan of yours will
not do at all, Amy, and I cannot think how you could be so silly as to
propose it. School-girls never like reading, and if they do, they
can have enough of it at home. What they ought to have here should be
something to mark the place, something they should remember, something,
in short, quite different from what they could find anywhere else."
Amy did her best to think, but it was all to no purpose; and Dora at
last could only sigh and moan, and walk to the window and watch the
weather, and wish that the snow would come down and keep them all at
home.
"And snow Miss Cunningham in," said Amy, laughing.
"To be sure," answered Dora, "that would be rather odious. What a goose
she made of herself last night, Amy, and how delighted I was when you
had all the praise."
"So was I too," said Amy; "but I don't think I was right. I am sure,
indeed, I was not; for I spoke to mamma about it afterwards, and she
told me it was vanity."
"As for that," said Dora, "every one is vain."
"But then," said Amy, "we promised at our baptism that we would not be
so; and mamma says that persons who are vain soon become envious, and
that envy leads to very great crimes, and that if we indulge in vanity,
we can never tell how wicked we shall become by and by."
"I cannot understand why you are always talking of baptism, Amy," said
Dora; "it seems as if it had something to do with everything, according
to your notions."
"According to mamma's notions, you mean; she reminds me of it so often
that I cannot possibly forget it."
"But there is no one in the world who has kept the promise," said Dora;
"and then they say we have such a wicked nature; what is the use of
thinking about being good when we have no power to be so?"
"I do not think I understand it quite," replied Amy, "and I am sure,
Dora, I cannot teach you, but I could tell you what mamma tells me."
"And what is that?" asked Dora.
"Mamma says," answered Amy, "that when we are born we all have very
wicked natures; but that, when we are baptized, God gives us a new
nature which is good; and that, when we grow up, we can do right if we
really wish to do it, because we have the Holy Spirit always to help
us; and once, when I made an excuse for something I had done wrong, by
saying that it was natural, and I could not help it, she told me that
it might have been an excuse if I had not been baptized, but that now it
was no excuse at all."
"Then what are we to do?" said Dora; "no person really keeps their
promise. How wicked we must all be!"
"Mamma says we are," replied Amy; "and that we ought to be so very
careful about our smallest actions, and our words and thoughts, because
it is so dangerous to do wrong now."
"But," said Dora, "I cannot see why people should be baptized, if it
only makes them worse off than they were before."
"Oh! but indeed, Dora," exclaimed Amy, looking rather shocked, "it makes
us better off than we were before,--a great deal better off; for you
know the service about baptism says that we are made God's children,
really His children; and that, when we die, we shall go to heaven, if
we try and do right now, and beg Him to forgive us when we do wrong, for
our Saviour's sake."
"I do not understand it," said Dora; "and I never heard any one talk
about it till I came to Emmerton."
"I did not understand it half as well," replied Amy, "till mamma told me
a story about uncle Harrington's birthday, and said that, when we were
baptized, we were made heirs of heaven, just as he was heir to this
place and all the property; and even now it puzzles me very much, and
very often I cannot believe that it is all true; but I try to do so,
because mamma says it is, and shows me where it is written in the
Bible."
"But how can we tell that we have a good nature given us at our
baptism?" said Dora; "I never feel it; I don't think I do anything that
is right all day long; you may have a good nature, Amy, and I think you
have, but I know I have not."
"Mamma says," answered Amy, "that being sorry for our faults and wishing
to do better is a sign of it; and you know, Dora, you often tell me how
much you wish to do right, and sometimes, when I have had a great many
wrong feelings--vain feelings, I mean, and angry and envious ones--the
only thing that makes me at all happy again, is because I feel sorry for
it."
Dora sighed deeply. "I wish," she said, "that the bad nature would
go all at once, I am so tired of wishing to do good, and always doing
wrong, and then I begin to think there is no use in trying. It would be
easier if I could believe that it was true about baptism, because then
it would appear as if there was something to help me; but I have always
heard people talk about having such a very wicked nature, till at last
it seemed foolish to hope to be good, as if it were impossible; not but
what I do try sometimes, Amy," she continued, with a sudden impulse
to be unreserved, which she had occasionally felt when talking to her
cousin since their little disagreement; "I do try sometimes, though I
daresay you will not believe it, because I am so cross. I meant to have
tried this morning, only Lucy Cunningham made me so angry by the way she
twisted her head about, and the nonsense she talked at breakfast, that I
could not help becoming out of humour with every one; and when once I
am annoyed in the morning, I go on so all day; but you cannot understand
that, it is so unlike you."
"I can, though," replied Amy, "for I very often am provoked when I watch
Miss Cunningham, and hear her talk; but I try not to look at her, and to
think of something else."
"I cannot do that," said Dora; "when she is in the room, I find myself
watching her and listening to her, though I would give the world not to
do it; for I am always longing to stop her, or say something sharp; and
yet, when I do, I am so vexed with myself for it. I know nothing will
ever go right while she is with us."
"Then you will not be uncomfortable long," replied Amy.
"But," said Dora, "I know very well that it is no use feeling properly
only when everything goes as you like; what I wish is to have the power
of being good always. There are some people who are never put out of
humour--aunt Herbert for one; I long to be like her."
"So do I," exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "but then she is so very, very good;
I don't think it is possible to be what she is; Mrs Walton says she
never met with any one like her."
"That is what disheartens me; good people are so up in the clouds, where
one can never get at them."
"I suppose, though," answered Amy, "they were not always so good. Mamma
often says she did a great many naughty things when she was my age."
"I wish she would tell me what made her better, then," said Dora. "Did
she ever tell you?"
"No," replied Amy; "all that she ever told me was what I ought to do
myself to cure my faults; and she said that she would pray to God to
help me."
"No one will ever promise that for me," observed Dora, sighing.
"But mamma will, I am sure," exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "and I----"
"Why do you stop?" said Dora.
"Mamma tells me to mention all your names in my prayers," replied Amy;
"but I don't mean that that would be the same as her doing so, because
she is so much better."
"I cannot see what difference that can make. I should like very much
to think you did it always for me; but it must be such a trouble to
remember."
"Oh no, Dora, it would seem so unkind not to do it; and if I thought
you cared, I never could forget; but some day or other, when I am quite
good, it will be of much more use."
"Does aunt Herbert think that no one must pray for others but those who
never do anything wrong?" asked Dora, in a tone of surprise.
"No; she says we all ought to pray for each other, and that it is quite
our duty. But we are told in the Bible that very good persons' prayers
are heard particularly; and so mamma says that is one reason for trying
to conquer our faults; because God will be more likely to attend to us
then."
"I cannot think you ever had any faults to cure; you never could have
been ill-tempered."
"Oh Dora! pray don't say so; it makes me think I must be so deceitful,
for I am often ill-tempered, and I used to be so every day at my
lessons."
"Then," said Dora, "you can tell me just what I want to know. What did
you do to make yourself better?"
"I used to talk about it to mamma," replied Amy; "and one day
particularly, I remember, I was very unhappy, and thought I should be
cross all my life; and then she showed me a prayer which she had written
out for me. It was taken from the Collects and the Psalms; and she
begged me to repeat it every morning and evening, and once in the middle
of the day, too, and try to think about it; and she marked some verses
in the Bible, and gave me a short prayer besides--just a few words to
say to myself when I felt that I was becoming out of temper; and she
advised me, when I knew I had been doing wrong, in that or anything
else, to go to my room instantly, and pray to God to forgive me; and
after I had done as she desired for some time, and really tried very
hard not to speak when I was angry, and to give up to whatever mamma
wished, I found it much easier to be good-tempered."
"But," said Dora, "that is so much to do. I never heard before of any
one saying their prayers in the middle of the day. Why should it be
necessary?"
"Oh!" replied Amy, "if people do not pray, they never can have any help
from God; and the Holy Spirit, which was given them at their baptism,
will go away from them, and they will become dreadfully wicked."
"It is right for people to say their prayers every morning and evening,
of course," said Dora; "but I must say again, I never heard of any
persons doing it in the middle of the day."
"I thought a great many people did; at least I know I have read in the
old times of some who said them seven times, and in the Bible it is
mentioned. Don't you remember one of the lessons they read in the church
about Daniel, and how he prayed three times every day?"
"Ah, yes! in the Bible; but then in the Bible every one does what is
right. I never think the persons we read of there could be like us."
"They did not always do right, though," answered Amy, "because it very
often says that God was displeased with them. You know how angry Moses
was once, and how he was not allowed to go with the Israelites. Whenever
I read that, I always think that I should have felt exactly like him."
"I cannot say I ever thought much about it," said Dora. "One hears it
all in church; but I always am so sleepy on a Sunday, that I cannot
attend."
"But I suppose you are not always sleepy when you read at home."
"I never do read at home now; we used to do it when we were children,
for mamma taught us to read like every one else out of the Bible, but I
thought of nothing but the hard words, and it always appeared a lesson
book, and so I never looked at it afterwards. I forgot, though, on a
Sunday we were accustomed to read a chapter, but we have left off that
lately--I don't quite know why, except that we are too old."
"Too old to read the Bible!" repeated Amy, with a feeling of painful
surprise that her cousin should have such ideas.
"I don't mean too old to read it at all," replied Dora, "but too old to
be forced to do it."
"Mamma does not force me to do it," said Amy; "but it seems to come
naturally; the day would be quite strange if we missed it."
"Do you mean to say that you read it every day, or only on Sundays?"
"Every day," replied Amy. "We always read the psalms and lessons the
first thing after breakfast, except on Wednesdays and Fridays, and
Saints' days, when we go to church."
"Go to church on the week-days!" exclaimed Dora; "who ever heard of such
a thing?"
"I thought it was what almost every one did," replied Amy; "and I always
fancied you would if you were not so far from the church."
"I cannot imagine what the good of it all is," said Dora.
"But it is ordered," replied Amy, "in the Prayer Book."
"I do not see that is any reason for it; its being ordered does not make
it good."
"I once asked mamma some questions about it," said Amy, "and she told me
that the Prayer Book was put together by very good men, who know a great
deal better than we do what was right; and that it was composed from the
prayers which were used a great, great many years before, just in the
time after our Saviour died, and that they had made all the rules about
the service and the Saints' days, according to the old customs; and so
now, it was the law of the Church in England, and every one ought to
attend to it."
"Every one does not attend to it, though," replied Dora; "at Wayland, no
person ever thought of going to church except on Sundays."
"I believe," said Amy, "the Prayer Book says there ought to be service
every day; and there are regular psalms and lessons marked in the
calendar."
"Perhaps so; but I am sure if people were to go to church as often as
you say, there would be no time for anything else."
"We generally manage to do very much the same on Wednesdays and Fridays
as on other days; it is merely doing things at different hours."
"If I could only see the good of it, I should not care," said Dora; "but
it is so strange to be always thinking so much of one thing; prayers at
home, and reading the Bible, and going to church every day--I should get
so tired of it."
"You would not be tired if you were accustomed to it, because it would
come to you naturally, like eating, and drinking, and sleeping; and,
besides, it prevents one from going on wrong all day."
"How do you mean?" asked Dora.
"Don't you know," replied Amy, "that when things are disagreeable in the
morning, and one is put out of temper, it seems as if nothing would put
one right again?"
"Well, yes!" said Dora, rather impatiently; "go on."
"Then," continued Amy, "if I am cross, and the time comes for reading
the psalms and lessons, or going to church, or saying the prayer mamma
gave me for the middle of the day, it stops me; because it seems so much
more wicked to be cross in church, or when one is reading the Bible,
than at any other time; and then I get better, and set off again fresh."
"That is the reason, I suppose," said Dora, "that you are never angry a
whole day together, as a great many people are; but I cannot understand
where you get the time for it all; does it never interfere with your
walking or your lessons?"
"No," replied Amy, "because we reckon upon it beforehand; and when we
are thinking of what is to be done in the day, we always remember that
we shall be sometime in church or reading the psalms and lessons; and
mamma arranges so as not to let it interfere."
"But still you must be tired of it," persisted Dora; "it is quite
impossible that you should go on, day after day, and not wish for a
change. I am sure I get quite tired of going to church on Sundays; and I
do not know what I should do if I were obliged to go every day."
"I don't like it always," replied Amy, while the colour mounted to her
cheek; "and I know I do not attend half as I ought; but I am sure it
makes the day go right, and mamma tells me it will be pleasanter to me
every year; besides, I know that if it were not for going to church and
reading with mamma, and all that sort of thing, I should be so much more
ill-tempered, and envious, and vain, than I am now, and then I should
be wretched; for you don't know, Dora, what very bad feelings I have
sometimes;" and the tears started into Amy's eyes as she spoke, at the
recollection of the last Saturday evening.
Dora was silent; her own faults were so much greater than her cousin's,
that Amy's self-reproach was more bitter than any reproof could possibly
have been. If Amy were so grieved at the remembrance of an impatient
word, or a passing thought of vanity, what ought she to feel whose whole
life had been one of pride and self-will? She felt, too, as if she had
no right to attempt to comfort one who was so much better than herself;
and stood for several moments looking at Amy with wonder and interest,
till the striking of the clock recalled her to herself, and, starting
at the time they had spent together, she declared the day was half gone
already, and there were a hundred things to be done before the people
came.
"I had quite forgotten them," said Amy; "I think, Dora, I forget a great
many things when I am talking to you."
"Do you?" said Dora, turning suddenly round to kiss her; "it cannot be
any use to you to talk to me, because you have aunt Herbert to go to."
"I do like it, though, so very much," answered Amy, "and I think about
it afterwards; but I wish I could help you in amusing every one."
"I must leave them to their fate," said Dora, preparing to leave the
room, "for mamma wants me, I know; but Amy," she added, stopping, and
apparently desirous, yet unwilling to say more; "I wish----no, never
mind now."
"Oh! do tell it me," said Amy; "is it anything I can do for you? I
should be so glad."
"No, nothing, nothing," hastily repeated Dora, though her manner was at
variance with her words.
"But you must tell me," said Amy, seizing her dress to prevent her
going; "I am sure you mean something; can I look out some books, or put
the room in order, or get anything for you?"
"No, nothing of that kind; but, Amy, should you--should you very much
mind letting me see the prayer aunt Herbert gave you?"
"Oh! if you would but let me give it you," exclaimed Amy, "for it is in
mamma's handwriting; and I think you would like it all the better for
that, and it is such a nice one; shall I go and fetch it?"
"I must not wait now," said Dora, "for I am after my time with mamma;
but if you will put it in my room by and by, I should thank you so very
much; and I shall always think of you when I look at it."
"And of mamma," said Amy; "and some day, perhaps, Dora, you will be able
to talk to her as I do, and ask her anything you want to know."
Dora shook her head, for she believed she never could be unreserved with
any one but her cousin, and hastened to her mamma's room, with a longing
desire that she could go to her for advice as Amy did to Mrs Herbert.