FOR some days things went on very quietly in Charity's new home. The
gentle little girl soon made herself loved by all around her. Before
long even Mr. Hawke's rough voice softened, when it was addressed to
her, while Lottie was quite devoted to her new sister. Charity became
very fond of Lottie, but still her happiest time was when seated by her
aunt's side, sometimes reading or talking, but at other times with her
face leaning against the sofa, and her tears dropping steadily as her
thoughts roamed over all that she had lost. The tears were a relief to
her, but Mrs. Hawke never allowed them to continue too long. Not that
Charity was always in such low spirits. It would have been strange, at
her age, if this had been the case. Sometimes the grief and the longing
to see her father again were almost overpowering, but at other times
she was very happy in a quiet way.
Charity had troubles to bear in this now home. Even Lottie, kind as
she usually showed herself, was often a trial. She was somewhat wilful
and passionate; and Charity, who had been so much accustomed to have
her own way, found it not a little difficult to give up to Lottie in
everything. Never in her life before had she felt so often angry and
vexed. It was quite a new discovery to her that she really had an
irritable temper.
Hardest of all to bear, however, was the boys' treatment of Edwin,
though they did not really mean to be unkind. They could not
understand—strong country lads that they were—how the little delicate
orphaned boy, unaccustomed to companions of his own age, shrank from
their rough play, and dreaded their approach. No one but Charity had an
idea of what he suffered, and even she was hardly aware of how far it
went. She knew that they teased him, and laughed at him, but she did
not know how constantly it was done. Midsummer holidays had begun not
long after their arrival, and George and Wilfred had in consequence
full liberty to do what they liked.
One day, Charity and Lottie had been working together for some time
in the garden, when the former fancied she heard a slight and distant
cry of distress. Was it Edwin's voice? She started up, with flushing
cheeks, and Lottie looked at her in surprise.
"What is the matter, Charity?"
"I thought I heard Edwin call out. Where can he be?"
"Having a game of play, most likely. How frightened you always are
about that child!"
"There it is again!" Charity exclaimed, as she dropped her work and
flew in the direction whence the sound proceeded.
Once or twice she heard it repeated, and at length, on coming in sight
of a small plantation, she saw Edwin with his cousins. He was standing
by a tree, looking pale and frightened, while George and Wilfred
were laughing loudly. What they were doing Charity did not pause to
consider. In another moment she had rushed past the elder boys, and
had thrown her arm protectingly round her brother—her poor little
fatherless Edwin!
"Here comes Charity to spoil the fun and coddle her baby!" said George,
with a tone of contempt. "I say, Charity, you had better leave him to
us. He's too old to be spoiled and coddled, and we are going to cure
him of his babyish ways."
"'Charity suffereth long, and is kind,'" breathed a little voice in
Charity's heart, but indignation at their daring to treat Edwin so
was the strongest, and facing the boys with crimson cheeks, she said
resolutely, "You shall not! I won't have you do it! You are unkind,
cruel boys, and I shall tell Aunt Lottie about you."
"Tell her—tell her by all means," said George, laughing. "Mamma doesn't
approve of spoilt children any more than we do." He laid his hand on
her arm as he spoke. "Now, Miss Charity, please to walk off, and don't
interfere. We are not going to hurt him, but he is to do as he is told."
"What do you want him to do?" asked Charity, clasping Edwin tightly.
"Never you mind. We won't do him any harm."
Poor little Edwin's tears began to fall. "Oh, Charity, 'don't' let
them," he sobbed. "I can't—I can't—"
"What do they want you to do, Edwin?"
"To climb that tree, and take down the nest. I can't climb—and—and—I
can't take the nest. 'He' said he hoped I never should."
Well Charity remembered her father's strong feelings about the cruelty
of birds'-nesting. "You shan't do it, Edwin," she said, resolutely. "If
George and Wilfred like to be cruel, they shall not teach you to be so."
Had her look been more gentle, her tone less angry, they might have
yielded. But they were excited by her manner, and George laid hold of
her arm to pull her away, unaware how rough was his grasp. Charity in
her turn burst into passionate tears.
"Don't!—You hurt me!" And in her anger she sobbed out words for which
in her cooler moments she would be sorry. Even as she spoke them, she
knew they were wrong, and checked herself.
Then, as she dashed away her tears, and glanced round, she saw her
uncle on the grass at some distance. In her excitement she forgot her
fear of him, broke away from George before he knew what she was about
to do, and rushing after Mr. Hawke begged him in a choked voice to keep
them from teasing Edwin.
"Who—George and Wilfred?" asked Mr. Hawke. "Don't cry, child! What are
they doing?"
Charity gasped out an explanation, already almost repenting her haste.
It happened that he strongly disapproved of birds'-nesting, and had
forbidden his boys to attempt anything of the kind. Their disobedience
procured them a severe rebuke, in the midst of which Lottie came up,
and seemed to understand matters at a glance.
"Did you really ask papa to scold them?" she whispered. "I wonder you
dared! They will never forgive you. I don't envy you now, Charity!"
Charity had no spirit to answer. Her anger was all gone now, and
conscience was reproaching her loudly. What must Lottie think of her
for being so easily overcome, after all she had said to her about
keeping her temper?
Lottie made no remarks, but Charity fancied there was a look of quiet
triumph in her face. Perhaps she was not mistaken. Lottie was fond of
her cousin, but not with the Christian love that would have made her
grieve over such a failure.
Edwin had escaped to his own room, and Charity was glad to leave her
cousins and follow him. On the way, however, she passed the open door
of the drawing-room, and her aunt's voice called her in. Mrs. Hawke was
lying on the sofa, and motioning Charity to a seat by her side, she
raised her hand to the child's heated face.
"What is wrong, dear?" she asked.
Charity hung her head.
"They have been teasing Edwin," she said. "And I was angry."
"I am sorry for that, Charity—sorry my boys could have been so unkind
and unmanly as to tease a little boy like Edwin. And I am sorry, too,
that my little niece was angry, for I do not think it could have done
much good, and it certainly was not right."
Charity's tears came in spite of herself.
"It was wrong," she said; "I know it was."
"Will you tell me how it happened, dear?"
Charity obeyed, in a low tone, and with burning cheeks. She did not
attempt to lighten the boys' misconduct, but she was still more careful
to give a fair account of the temper she had herself shown.
Mrs. Hawke heard in silence.
"I do not wonder your uncle was displeased with them," she said at the
close. "I am ashamed that they can act in such a manner. But still I do
think that if you had spoken more gently, and 'asked' them not to tense
Edwin, instead of declaring that he should not do what they wished,
they would have given way. You know you are a little girl—two years
younger than George, and boys do not like to be dictated to."
"I know I was very cross," said Charity, mournfully. "It seemed as if I
could not help it."
"Did you seek for help, Charity?" asked her aunt, quietly.
"There wasn't time," said Charity, faintly.
"Charity, have you forgotten that beautiful birthday text that you
showed me a few days ago?"
Charity shook her head.
"Do you think we should be told in the Bible to be kind, and
tender-hearted, and forgiving, if it were out of our power to be so? I
do not mean that we can do it in our own strength. But you know where
we can obtain help."
"The Lord Jesus Christ," Charity whispered.
"Yes; He will always hear and answer the very faintest cry for help.
One moment of time is enough to pray in. You know that beautiful hymn,
which says—
"'Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.'
"There is always time for one glance upward, Charity."
"Yes—I know," said Charity. "I don't know what made me say that. I
can't think how I could go into such a passion. I never did at home,—"
and a sob cut her short.
"You had few companions there, and little to try your temper. There
must always be more to bear when several children are together. Unless
they learn to bear with one another, they can never be happy. You must
not think, dear, that I am excusing your cousins, for they have acted
very wrongly. But I do not believe they really meant to be unkind to
Edwin. He is a timid little fellow, and they have always been strong
and bold, so they cannot understand him."
"It's so hard to see them tease him. And he has no one but me to take
care of him," murmured Charity.
"No one!" repeated Mrs. Hawke.
"Only you, Aunt Lottie. He is always happy with you, but he can't be
with you always," said Charity, throwing her arms round Mrs. Hawke.
"And no one else, Charity, besides you and me?" asked her aunt.
Charity knew what she meant, but she did not speak.
And Mrs. Hawke added—
"There is One who can take more care of Edwin, and make him far
happier, than either you or I can. Our dear Saviour loves little
children, Charity."
Charity sighed.
"I wish I were more like that text," she said, after a pause. "I 'wish'
I could 'suffer long, and be kind.' It isn't a good name for me."
"'Charity,' do you mean? Why should it not be a good name for you,
dear? It only means love—love to God and man. True Charity 'must'
'suffer long and be kind.' If you love the Lord Jesus, you cannot help
trying to serve and obey Him; and if you love your neighbour, you
cannot but be kind and gentle to him."
"Everybody hasn't charity," said the little girl, with perhaps a
thought of George and Wilfred.
"No; none have true charity but the children of God. And no one in the
world has so much charity that he needs not to pray for more." Mrs.
Hawke was silent a minute, and then said, in a low, earnest voice, "It
is my deepest wish that your cousins may have this heavenly charity in
their hearts. Will you pray that they may, darling, and that the beauty
of it may be shown forth in your conduct and mine?"
Charity's kisses were her only answer, but more was not needed. They
were interrupted, and Charity went away to think over what had passed.
She could not feel easy until she had told the boys that she was sorry
for having been so angry.
And though George turned away in silence, and Wilfred whistled
contemptuously, she felt far more happy afterwards.
[Illustration]