_THE CLOUD GROWS._
THE biscuits were excellent, and Rhoda greatly enjoyed making and
baking them, and afterward milking old Snowball and straining the milk.
"What beautiful rich milk she does give!" said she. "Aunt Hannah, what
will you do when she dies? She is growing an old cow, you know."
"I don't borrow trouble about it, child."
"Nor about anything else, do you, Aunt Hannah?"
"Well, no, my dear, not often. I generally find I have enough as I go
along. There is no need to look ahead for it."
"I never can see any use in it, anyway," remarked Rhoda. "Either
the things one is worrying about don't come to pass, or they are so
different from what one expects that all the contriving beforehand is
thrown away. I said so to mother, and she told me it was very easy for
any one to talk so who did not know what trouble was. But I am sure you
know what it is."
"Yes, child, I have had my share: quite as much as I wanted, without
borrowing any; and so, I dare say, will you, if you live long enough.
Now, my dear, it is time for you to be going. And, Rhoda, I want you
to promise me one thing: I am an old woman, and there is no telling
what may happen before we meet again. I want you to promise me that,
whatever happens, you will never give up your faith in God, and your
trust in his goodness. Never think, however he may suffer you to be
afflicted, that he can be anything but a tender Father to you. I think
you love him, Rhoda, my child?"
Rhoda answered in a low voice, but without hesitation:
"Yes, Aunt Hannah, I am sure I do."
"Then, my dear, will you always remember these verses?
"'He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, how
shall he not with him freely give us all things?'
"'Be careful for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication
with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.'
"'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'
"I have bought you a new Bible for a parting present," continued Aunt
Hannah, "and I have written these verses in the beginning. Remember,
whatever happens, that your Lord and Saviour has promised to be with
you, that you are not to be anxious, but to let your requests, great
and small, be made known unto him, and that your Father's love can
never fail to give you that which is best, seeing that he spared not
his own Son for you."
"I won't forget, Aunt Hannah. Oh what a beautiful book!—The nicest I
ever saw. Just see! It has maps and an index, and all."
"Yes, you will find it very convenient. Now, go along, child, and God
bless you!"
Rhoda left her plate of good things at Mrs. Makay's, and then walked
rapidly homeward, for it was growing late.
As she entered the parlour she nearly stumbled over somebody who was
sitting in the rocking-chair, for the room was quite dark.
"Take care, and mind what you are about, Rhoda!" said her mother. "You
do come in, in such a headlong way."
"It is so dark coming in from out of doors," apologized Rhoda. "May I
get a light, mother? I have something to show you."
"Yes, do. I have been waiting for you to come."
Rhoda lighted the lamp and came in, bringing it in one hand and her
little shirts and her new Bible in the other. As she did so, she saw
that the person over whom she had nearly fallen was Mr. Weightman. He
laughed in his usual amiable fashion as he saw her look of discomfiture
and annoyance.
"You are out rather late, I think, miss," said he. "In my time little
girls stayed at home and helped do the work, instead of running about
town after dark. But come, let us see this wonderful something."
Rhoda wished herself or Mr. Weightman anywhere else, but there was no
help for it now, and she produced the shirts she had made for the baby.
"How very nice and pretty they are!" said Mrs. Bowers. "And how neatly
you have made them! See, father, what a pretty present Rhoda has made
for the baby! Who taught you, dear?"
"Aunt Hannah," replied Rhoda, her heart beating with pleasure; "but I
did every stitch of them myself, and bought the wool with my own money."
"Humph! Your money!" said Mr. Weightman. "Pray, how came you by this
money of yours?"
Rhoda was silent till Mrs. Bowers said, rather sharply,—
"Don't you hear, Rhoda? Why don't you answer Mr. Weightman's question?"
Then she said, briefly,—
"It is money my father gave me to spend for a new sash, Mr. Weightman."
"So that was the reason you bought the cheap sash?" said her mother.
"I wondered at your changing your mind. I must say it was very nice in
you, my dear. But what pretty book have you there?"
"A new Bible Aunt Hannah gave me—just what I wanted. Isn't it pretty?"
"Let me see it," said Mr. Weightman, and Rhoda put it into his hand,
feeling as if his touch would profane her treasure.
He turned the book over and over, and then looked at the flyleaf where
the price was marked.
"Five dollars and a half!" said he, in a tone of amazement mingled with
sorrow.
"Well, if ever! Five dollars and a half! And she might have got one
for nothing if she must give it away. Well, I didn't think even Hannah
would do such a thing as that. She ought to be put under 'gardeens.'"
Rhoda was boiling over, but she kept silence, and only held out her
hand for her precious book, which Uncle Jacob seemed no ways inclined
to give up.
"I am sure it was very kind in Aunt Hannah," said Mrs. Bowers, in a
deprecating tone.
"Kind? Yes! Wonderful kind! I should like to know what business she has
to be so kind, as you call it?"
"She has a right to do what she likes with her own, I suppose," said
Mrs. Bowers, with some spirit.
"And she has written all over the flyleaves, so that you can't take it
back or exchange it for anything useful," continued Uncle Jacob: "'To
my dearest niece and pupil.' Do you hear that, Maria? Rhoda is her
dearest niece. Well, I must say I think charity begins at home. I think
she might consider her own family a little. But I suppose you are too
well off to care what your relations do with their money."
"Will you please give me my book, Mr. Weightman?" said Rhoda, in a
voice which expressed more than her words, and holding out her hand for
the book.
"Oh ho! So I am Mr. Weightman now, am I?" said he, still retaining the
volume, and evidently enjoying Rhoda's irritation. "I was Uncle Jacob
this afternoon, I remember."
"It was a mere slip of the tongue, Mr. Weightman," said Rhoda, trying
hard to control her temper. "I am sure I should never call you 'Uncle'
if I knew what I was saying. Will you please give me my book?"
Mr. Weightman threw it on the table:
"Take it, then, and learn manners from it, if you can. Niece Maria, I
wish you joy of your adopted daughter. It is easy to see that she will
get on in the world."
"You may go to your own room, Rhoda," said Mr. Bowers; "and another
time don't stay away all the afternoon and leave your work for your
mother as you did to-night."
Rhoda could not trust herself to speak. She took up her book and
retreated, smarting under a sense of injustice such as she had never
felt before. It was hard enough to be insulted in that way, but that
her father should take part against her, and her mother should not say
a word for her—it was almost too much to bear. She retreated to the
kitchen, and busied herself in putting away the milk and preparing
things for the night till Mr. Weightman went away and Mr. Bowers came
into the kitchen.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, harshly. "Didn't you hear me tell
you to go to bed?"
"I thought I would put things away," Rhoda began, but Mr. Bowers
stopped her. "Oh yes! You thought you would do anything rather than
what you were told. You have got to turn over a new leaf, Rhoda, and
learn to mind, and not spend all your time running about and reading
story-books. And I don't want to hear any excuses or fine speeches. Go
to bed, and another time do as I tell you."
Mr. Bowers was a man of moods and tenses; and whatever the mood of the
moment might be, he rarely failed to make those about him sensible of
the same. Knowing this to be the case, Rhoda thought less of his words
than she would otherwise have done. Girl-like, she had a good cry when
she got up stairs by herself, but, girl-like, she cried away most of
her trouble, and was prepared to take the best view that was possible.
"Father was worried about something," she said to herself. "I dare say
Uncle Jacob—I mean Mr. Weightman—had been at him. It will be all right
to-morrow. I didn't leave all the work for mother, and she knows I
didn't; and anyhow, I am glad she liked the shirts."
But Rhoda did not find it all right on the morrow, nor for a good many
succeeding days. She could not tell what was the matter, though she
taxed herself in every way to see whether she were to blame, and told
herself again and again that she was growing jealous and fanciful; but
all was of no use. There was certainly a great change.
Mrs. Bowers alternated between fondness and fretfulness. One day
she told Rhoda that she slighted her work, and that she ought to do
more about the house; the next perhaps she found fault with her for
neglecting her book, telling her that there was no saying how long she
might have a chance for study. At times she seemed unwilling to have
Rhoda out of her sight, and again she appeared to seek excuses for
getting rid her.
Mr. Bowers was almost uniformly cold and repellent in his manners
toward her, though he too now and then melted into tenderness,
especially once, when Mr. Weightman had been away for several days.
"Father," said Rhoda, taking courage to speak out what was in her mind,
"have I done wrong or offended you in any way?"
"No, child, no," answered Mr. Bowers, hastily; "why should you think
so?"
"Because you are so different from what you used to be," answered
Rhoda. "You don't seem the same person sometimes—not a bit like my
father," she added, putting her arms round his neck and sitting down on
his knee as she used to do when a child.
Mr. Bowers started as if stung.
"You mustn't let such notions come into your head," he said, kissing
her with something of his old affection. "I have been worried about
business and other things—no matter what. Nothing that need trouble
you."
"I can't help being worried when I see you so different, papa," said
Rhoda. "I think you ought to tell me about business now," she added,
with a pretty little assumption of dignity. "I am not the baby any
longer: I am the elder daughter."
Mr. Bowers's moustache twitched a little, and his voice was somewhat
husky as he answered,—
"You are a dear good girl, and always have been, Rhoda. I am sure you
have been the same as our own ever since you came to us."
"I never remember that I am not your own unless somebody puts me in
mind of it," said Rhoda. "I never think of belonging to anybody else."
"Not even to Aunt Annie?" asked Mr. Bowers. "Didn't you want to go and
be Aunt Annie's girl?"
"No, indeed!" answered Rhoda, with emphasis. "I never thought of such
a thing. I would have liked well enough to go to Hobarttown to school,
because I always have wanted to get a regular education, but that was
all. I never dreamed of such a thing as living there. I don't believe
you think you have very much of a daughter, papa dear, if you suppose
she could want to run away from you as easily as that. I don't believe
you would like to have me think you wanted to get rid of me."
Mr. Bowers's mouth twitched again.
"I was only joking, child. There! Run over to the post-office and see
whether the mail has come in."
For three or four days all was fair weather with Rhoda once more. Her
father was kindness itself, and seemed to seek out ways of giving her
pleasure.
"I can't do it," Rhoda heard him say one day in answer to some
observations of his wife's. "It would break my heart to part with the
girl, and I don't believe it would be right."
"But if it is our duty toward the child?" said his wife.
"I don't believe it is," answered Mr. Bowers, hastily; "I don't believe
the child will ever be one bit the better for it."
Rhoda knew she ought not to listen, and turned away, her heart beating
between hope and disappointment. Could it be that they were thinking of
sending her away to school?
As the time went on, a good many things seemed to confirm this view
of the case. Her father had bought a new sewing-machine and a piece
of nice muslin, and her mother had set Rhoda to making a new set of
underclothing for herself. Her old dresses were all remodelled and
several new ones bought, and, in short, her wardrobe was put in perfect
order.
Mr. Weightman had returned, and was often at the house, but Rhoda
kept out of his way and seldom saw him. When they did meet, he was
uncommonly gracious to her; and once, encountering her in a store at
the Springs, he actually bestowed upon her a dollar to spend as she
pleased, advising her, at the same time, to buy something useful, and
not to waste it all upon ribbons and laces.
Rhoda could not help wondering how many ribbons and laces Uncle Jacob
supposed that one dollar would buy; but she liked to be friends with
everybody, so she thanked him for his present and laid it out upon a
box of initial-paper.