MRS. EVELYN had decided that it was best for Kitty to go to school, a
good deal to the young lady's annoyance,—partly because she had looked
forward to a summer of play, and partly because it hurt her dignity
to think of going to a common country school-house. She found some
comfort, however, in the idea that she should probably be a person of
considerable consequence. She had very little doubt that she should be
the best scholar in the school, and even made some serious resolutions
against being proud of her superiority in this and other respects. She
fully intended to be very kind to the other children and help them as
much as she could. And by the aid of these and similar reflections,
she quite reconciled herself to the idea, which had at first been so
distasteful to her.
Mrs. Evelyn began to see that in taking charge of Kitty she had
undertaken a pretty serious task, but she was a woman of great patience
and discernment. She saw that almost all Kitty's faults arose from her
overweening idea of her own importance, and that she would have to be
thoroughly humbled before there could be much hope of her permanent
improvement. But she knew that it would be necessary to proceed with
great care and gentleness, lest the little girl should become entirely
discouraged. Mrs. Evelyn had a high opinion of Miss Watson, the teacher
of the school; and she thought it would be much better for Kitty to be
with other girls of her own age, with whom she might compare herself
and her attainments.
When Sunday came, Kitty was much more attentive in church than she had
been before. Harvey knew how to use his book quite as well as Kitty
did, but he was fond of the little girl, as he was of every child, and
indeed, every animal that came near him, and was, moreover, somewhat
amused with the air with which she took the book out of his hand and
gave him her own, pointing at the same time to the proper place. And he
did not resent, as Kitty herself would have done, the imputation that
he did not understand the service.
Whether Kitty profited by the service or not, she certainly behaved
with great propriety, and had the satisfaction of saying her
Sunday-school lesson so perfectly that she hoped quite to overcome
any unfavourable impression she had made the Sunday before. In the
general exercise, her voice quite led the girls. And she was not at
all displeased when the superintendent called upon her to stand up and
recite the lesson by herself. Another little girl in her aunt's class
also recited it by herself, and acquitted herself very laudably, though
she did not speak quite so distinctly as Kitty. She was rather a pretty
child, about Kitty's own age, and her name was Sylvia Grey.
"Did I say my lesson well, aunt?" asked Kitty, as they were going home
in the carriage.
"Very well indeed," replied her aunt. "I was glad to hear you speak so
distinctly."
"I do not think the lessons are hard," continued Kitty. "I am sure it
was no trouble at all for me to learn mine."
"I think they are rather too easy for girls of your age," said Mrs.
Evelyn; "and I am thinking of changing the books for more advanced
ones. But, Kitty, is it exactly correct to say that it was 'no trouble
at all' for you to learn your lessons? I think you laboured over them
a good while, and, if I am not mistaken, you came to me for answers to
several of the questions."
"Oh, well, of course it is 'some' trouble to learn any lesson, if it is
ever so easy," replied Kitty.
"Then why should you say it was none?" asked Mrs. Evelyn. "Try to say
always exactly what you mean."
"Harvey has got a class, hasn't he?" recommenced Kitty, after a short
silence.
"Yes: he has taught for more than a year, and seems to get on very
nicely."
"It is funny, though, that he should be a teacher. I should not think
he would know enough."
"Harvey is an excellent Bible-scholar," remarked Mrs. Evelyn. "He has
been in Sunday-school ever since he could talk; and better still, he
is a very earnest and sincere Christian. He does a great deal towards
supporting his mother and sister, and is always ready to help any one
who needs his assistance."
"He has put up a swing for me in the carriage-house," said Kitty.
"He swung me ever so long yesterday, and he says he will make me a
spring-board. I suppose he wants to make amends to me."
"For what?" asked Mrs. Evelyn, smiling.
"Why, for teasing me so about my hat, and about the eggs."
"I should say that the indebtedness was the other way, there," replied
her aunt, "and that you were the one to make amends. I do not think
Harvey was in the least to blame in the matter. What are you going to
do for him in return for spoiling all his nice chickens?"
Kitty looked a good deal puzzled and annoyed at this view of the case.
"I am sure I did not mean to spoil them, aunt," she said, with
something of the air of an injured person.
"I suppose not. No one in their senses would be so foolish as to bring
in eggs for cake which had been under the hen for ten days. But that
does not alter the case, so long as you spoiled them. If Harvey had
meddled with your bird-cage and let your Java sparrows fly away by
accident, would you not think that he ought to pay for them, or, at
least, say that he was sorry? I think you would hardly feel yourself
called upon to make amends to him, even if you had said a good deal
more about it than Harvey did about the loss of his eggs."
This was a view which had not occurred to Kitty. And she felt somewhat
disturbed by the idea that it was she who had been forgiven and Harvey
who had been forbearing and magnanimous.
"Well, aunt, what do you think I ought to do about it?" she asked,
after a little reflection. "Shall I pay him for the chickens?"
"I would at least offer to do so."
"I don't know what they were worth," said Kitty.
"He paid two shillings a dozen for the eggs, and there were fifteen of
them," said Mrs. Evelyn. "How much does that make?"
"Two-and-sixpence," said Kitty, after calculating a little.
"Have you as much money as that?"
"Oh, yes, aunt! I have five dollars that my father gave me, besides
some change."
"Then I think I would at least offer to pay him. Two-and-sixpence is
not much to you; but, whether much or little, you should always be
prompt in paying your just debts."
"Well," said Kitty, "I will. I do think he is a good-natured boy; and,
after all, if it had been my nest, I know I should have said more about
it than he did."
Mrs. Evelyn could not suppress a smile at Kitty's condescending tone.
But she was glad to see that, once convinced of her error, she was
willing to make amends. In fact, this was almost always the case with
Kitty, when her eyes were fairly opened to her faults. The trouble was
to make her see them.
[Illustration: _Kitty Maynard._
Kitty and Harvey in the barn-yard.]
The next morning she was up early. And as soon as she had finished
putting her room in order, she took her little shopping-bag in her hand
and went out to find Harvey. He was neither in the barn nor in the
stable, though she heard him whistling somewhere. And going through
to the back-door, which was open, she saw him milking a brindled cow,
while the others stood round, waiting their turns.
"Is that you, Harvey?" she called. "Come here: I want to speak to you."
"I can't get up just now," said Harvey. "You come here."
"I am afraid of the cows," said Kitty, shrinking back.
"Oh, nonsense! What will they do to you? Why should they touch you any
more than they do me? Come, and I will teach you to milk. I am going to
milk old Strawberries-and-Cream, and she is a gentle creature. Come: I
will engage that they sha'n't hurt you."
Finally Kitty conquered her timidity, and went over to Harvey, who was
about to milk a beautiful red and white cow, to which he had given the
somewhat fanciful name of "Strawberries-and-Cream."
"But, Harvey," said she, argumentatively, "cows do hook people
sometimes, because I have read about it in the newspapers."
"People get killed in a great many ways sometimes," replied Harvey.
"I read the other day of a man who was choked to death by a piece of
beefsteak. I suppose, however, you would not hesitate to eat beefsteak
upon that account? But come; I thought you were going to learn to milk."
"If you won't laugh at me," said Kitty, doubtfully.
"I shall not make any promises," returned Harvey. "I laugh very easy
sometimes. But suppose I should: what harm would that do you?"
"None: only it is not very pleasant," said Kitty.
"That is as a body may think. I don't mind it."
"Because nobody ever laughs at you, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, they do, very often, because I am such an awkward, green sort
of fellow. One day, when I was in the city, I wanted to get mother some
snuff, so I went into the first store I came to and asked for it. But
as it happened, they kept only books and papers. And when I asked the
clerk for a shilling's-worth of the best snuff, he laughed out in my
face."
"And didn't you care for that?"
"No: what was the use? There was nothing disgraceful in asking for
snuff in a bookstore, was there?"
"I don't know. I should have been mortified to death if I had made such
a mistake. How did you come to do it?"
"Why, you know, they keep all sorts of things in country-stores, and
I thought they might do so in the city just as well. The next place
I went into was a dry-goods store. I used my eyes this time, and saw
nothing lying about but silks and such things. So I asked a gentleman
who was standing there if he could tell me where I could get some
snuff. And he sent me to the door and showed me where to go. I thought
he was much more polite than the other fellow, though he was not
dressed half so fine, and did not put on any grand airs.
"But come; sit down,—not that side:—always sit with your right hand
towards the cow's head. I have observed that in pictures they almost
always put the milkmaid on the wrong side of the cow. Gently, now: it
will cramp your hands at first."
Cramp them it did, sadly. But Kitty persevered, and to her great
satisfaction, was able, before the lesson was over, to send a very
satisfactory stream of milk into the pail.
"There!" said Harvey. "You can say that you have learned one useful
thing this week already. I would not try any more now: it will make
your hands lame. I guess breakfast is almost ready, too."
Kitty turned to go in, and had got as far as the barn-door when she
came skipping back:—"Oh, Harvey! I almost forgot the very thing I came
out for. I want to pay you for your chickens,—the nest that I spoiled."
"Never mind that," said Harvey, colouring a little: "I don't want you
to pay for them. It was only an accident, and you will know better next
time."
"It was my accident, however," persisted Kitty: "and indeed, Harvey, I
would much rather pay."
Harvey reflected a moment. He did not want to take the money, but he
saw that Kitty was very anxious to get rid of the obligation, and that
her sense of justice, once moved, made her feel uneasy till it was paid
off.
"I'll tell you what I will do, Kitty," he said, presently. "They are
collecting subscriptions for our new parish library; and I want to give
something. The eggs were worth about three shillings. And when Miss
Watson comes around, you may give her that much for me, if you choose."
"Well," said Kitty, "that will be very nice. I mean to give something
for myself, too."
She now turned and went into the house, feeling very much relieved at
having the matter off her mind, and quite proud of her exploit in the
milking-affair. She gave an account of the whole matter to her aunt,
who was much pleased, for two reasons,—first, that Kitty had overcome
her pride and owned herself in the wrong, and secondly, that Harvey had
shown so much generosity and delicacy in the way he had received her
advances.
Harvey was indeed a great favourite with Mrs. Evelyn. He had lived with
her several years, making the most of his opportunities and steadily
improving in knowledge and character, and she prophesied that he would
turn out a very useful man.
"What shall I wear to school, aunt?" asked Kitty, after breakfast.
"Just what you have on," was Mrs. Evelyn's reply. "Only you had better
brush your hair and put on a clean apron."
Kitty looked doubtfully at the pretty French calico dress and white
apron. "Cannot I wear my blue muslin dress, aunt? I think this hardly
looks fit."
"Why not? It is clean, is it not? I think it is much more suitable than
the delicate muslin," her aunt continued, seeing Kitty still hesitated.
"You will want to go out and play with the other girls in recess, and
your thin dress would be very likely to suffer."
"Do all the girls wear calico frocks, aunt?"
"Really, my dear, I cannot say," replied Mrs. Evelyn, gravely. "I
should think, perhaps, that some of them might even wear gingham. But
I do not like to speak positively upon such an important point. I am
inclined to think, however, that you will find shilling and ten-cent
calicoes the most fashionable material. But go and get your books and
your hat, and by that time I will be ready."
"You are not going to wear your sunbonnet, are you, aunt?" exclaimed
Kitty, as she came down with her books in her hands and met her aunt in
the hall.
"Why, yes; I believe so. Don't you think it is a pretty one?"
"Pretty for a sunbonnet," replied Kitty. "But I should not like to wear
it through the street in the city."
"Nor I; but, as we are going by a cross-road where we shall meet nobody
except perhaps two or three cows, I think it will answer."
Kitty agreed that it might do for the cows, though she thought within
herself that she should hardly be willing to wear it, or to carry the
gingham parasol, even if there were nobody to see her. It was nearly a
quarter of a mile from the farm-gate to the school-house, and the walk
was a very pleasant one, being closely shaded by elm and maple trees,
large and small, which lined the sides of the road. About half-way,
a large brook crossed the road under a pretty rustic bridge, and on
its bank lay some large brown stones, partly covered with moss, and
conveniently disposed for seats. Kitty decided that this would be a
nice place to stop and rest on her way home.
The school-house itself was prettier than country school-houses
often are. It was built of stone, and shaded by large butternut and
chestnut trees, and the yard was nicely fenced in and divided by a
high partition into separate play-grounds for the boys and girls. The
furniture of the school-room was of the very plainest description, and
a good deal the worse for wear. A stained table and one arm-chair stood
upon a platform, behind which was a blackboard, and a high shelf, on
which were a large ink-bottle, some books and a pile of writing-paper.
One long deal desk, with a shelf underneath it for books, ran round
the outside of the room, and before it stood plain wooden chairs for
the older scholars. About a dozen older girls, from twelve to sixteen,
occupied these seats, while an equal number of small boys and girls sat
upon two benches in the middle of the room. There were no large boys.
Miss Watson was hearing a class as they entered. But she put down her
book and came forward to meet them, while all the children rose and
stood up for a moment.
Kitty glanced round disdainfully at the bare walls and pine benches,
and then at Miss Watson herself. She was a tall, thin lady,—about
forty, Kitty thought,—very plainly and rather primly dressed, with her
hair, which was just beginning to turn gray, put up in curious little
round curls.
"I shall not like her," was Kitty's silent decision; "and yet I rather
think I shall, too. But I wonder why she wears those funny little prim
curls? She would look so much younger and better if she would dress
like other people."
She replied with great politeness to Miss Watson's kind greeting, and
then listened attentively to what her aunt was saying, though a little
confused by the consciousness that all the girls were looking at her.
"Kitty will study geography and grammar. And if you have a class in
Colburn's Arithmetic, I should like to have her go into it," said Mrs.
Evelyn. "Of course, she will write copies every day; and I think that,
together with reading and spelling, will fill up her time sufficiently
for the present, as I do not wish her to have any lessons out of
school."
"The older girls write compositions," said Miss Watson. "I presume you
will wish to have her do the same?"
"Certainly," replied Mrs. Evelyn; and, having thus arranged matters,
she took her leave.
"Where would you like to sit, my dear?" asked Miss Watson.
Kitty looked around and selected a seat by the window, from which
she could look abroad over the fields and catch a glimpse of her
aunt's house peeping through the trees. The seat next her own had a
pile of books neatly arranged upon it, but the owner of them had not
yet appeared. Kitty arranged her own books according to her fancy,
mentally contrasting her present seat with the black-walnut desk
and cane-bottomed chairs to which she had been accustomed at Miss
Burlingame's, and wondering what Josephine Powers would say to finding
herself in such a school-room!
Miss Watson appointed her a lesson in geography; and she set about it
with all proper diligence, fully determined to astonish her companions
and win the commendation of her teacher by her superior recitation.
She was a good deal annoyed at her aunt's choice of studies for her.
Arithmetic,—Colburn's, above all,—geography and grammar seemed very
commonplace and uninteresting to a young lady who had commenced French
and studied "Watts on the Mind;" and as to the copies and spelling, the
very idea was an affront. She determined to write to her mother about
it. And in the mean time, she would show Miss Watson and the girls that
such studies were nothing to her.
However, as she opened her book and ran her eye over the questions,
she began to be aware that, in order to make the distinguished figure
she intended, it would be necessary for her to begin studying at once,
as she did not know the answers to half of them. She had not been once
through the lesson, when a little girl came quietly in, and slipping
into the seat next to her, began taking out her books at once, as if
she were in a hurry to make up for lost time.
"You are late this morning, Sylvia," remarked Miss Watson.
"Yes, ma'am. Mother is quite sick this morning, and I could not get
away."
Kitty peeped over the edge of her book and recognised the face of
Sylvia Grey, the little girl who had recited so well in Sunday-school.
She was about Kitty's own age, but pale and thin, and her features
wore a peculiarly subdued and gentle expression. She was very plainly
dressed, and her dark calico frock was mended in several places; but in
spite of this and of the freckles which injured her complexion, Kitty
thought there was something very pleasing about her, and felt glad that
she was to have her for a neighbour.
The geography-class was called up before Kitty had time to go over her
lesson more than once, but she made out very well. Her next exercise
was in "Colburn's Arithmetic," which did not come till after recess, so
she had plenty of time to study. But Kitty took up the book and looked
over the lesson with utter contempt, deciding that it would not be
worth her while to spend much time upon it: accordingly, she spent the
interval before recess in arranging and re-arranging her books and in
gazing out of the window.
At recess, Sylvia did not go out, but remained busily engaged with her
arithmetic, and Kitty at first felt rather awkward. But by-and-by, one
of the oldest girls in the school, whom Kitty had observed looking very
curiously at her, came up and accosted her:—
"You are Mrs. Evelyn's niece, are you not?" she asked, politely enough.
"Yes," replied Kitty. And then feeling as though she had answered very
shortly, she added, "I am spending the summer with her."
"I should think you would find it very dull after the city," said her
new acquaintance, whose name she found was Selina Henshaw. "There is
such a noise and bustle there, and so much that is interesting and
exciting going on all the time."
"There is very little noise where we live," replied Kitty. "Carroll
Street is almost as quiet as this road is. But don't you think there
are some interesting things here too?"
"Why, I don't know," said Selina. "It is all pretty much alike, 'take'
the year round, except that sometimes it is winter and sometimes
summer. Haying and harvest and ploughing and sowing, and making butter
and cheese, all come right over and over. There is not much variety in
that. I suppose you wont to school in the city?"
"Yes," replied Kitty; "I went to Miss Burlingame's school."
"Is not that a very fashionable school?" asked Selina.
"Oh, yes," replied Kitty, eagerly; "and so different from this! We have
walnut desks and cane-bottomed chairs, and there is a carpet on the
floor, and a piano; and then we have four teachers. There are a hundred
young ladies up-stairs sometimes, besides the little girls in the lower
room."
"And what did you study when you were there?" said Selina.
Kitty ran over a list of books, the contents of which, if she had
mastered them thoroughly, would certainly have made her a very good
scholar for her age.
"I should not think you would care about coming to school here. I don't
see what you expect to learn. Why don't your aunt send you to school in
the village? There is a school there, kept by Mrs. Smith, where they
study some of those things, I know; and I am going to ask mother to
send me there after vacation. But I suppose Mrs. Evelyn, like every one
else, thinks that there is nobody like Miss Watson. I do not see any
thing so wonderful about her, for my part."
"I am sure her curls are wonderful," said Kitty, laughing. "At least,
I never saw any like them before. But she seems very good-natured, I
think."
"Wait till you know," said Selina, with a significant glance. "For my
part, I should not care if she only treated every one alike. But I do
think it is too provoking to see a teacher so partial."
"Who is she partial to?" asked Kitty.
"Oh, she has two or three favourites, but I think Sylvia Grey is the
principal one,—that girl with the freckles that sits next to you. She
never can do any thing wrong, in Miss Watson's eyes."
"She is in our class in Sunday-school," remarked Kitty; "and Aunt Sarah
thinks she is a very good girl. Perhaps that is the reason Miss Watson
is partial to her."
"Wait till you see," said Selina. "If any other girl had come in as
late as she did this morning, they would have heard enough about it.
But not one word did Miss Watson say, except to ask what had kept her."
"Well, she said her mother was worse: that was excuse enough."
"Oh, yes; that is the excuse for every thing. I believe her mother
might be as well as any one, if she had any ambition. I should think
she would be ashamed to lie abed half the time and let her girls work
for her as they do. Anne Grey does over bonnets and takes in sewing to
get along; and they have hard work to do that, sometimes, I expect.
Then there is Myra Clark: she is another of Miss Watson's favourites.
Miss Watson gives her drawing-lessons, because, she says, Myra has so
much talent!"
"Can Miss Watson draw?" asked Kitty. "I wish she would give me lessons.
I have always wanted to learn; and mother said I might, if I had an
opportunity."
"I dare say she would," said Selina. "She likes to have drawing
scholars. It sounds much grander than teaching geography and
arithmetic. By-the-by, have you learned your Colburn?"
"I only just looked at it," said Kitty. "It seemed to be so easy, I
thought I should not have to study it much."
"Some of it is hard enough, I can tell you. I don't believe that you
will get along at all if you have not studied it. But you will be at
the foot anyway: so it won't matter."
"But I should not like to miss," said Kitty, rather alarmed. "I wish I
had studied it. I wonder if I should have time now?"
"It comes directly after recess, so I don't believe you will. There
is the bell ringing now. Come; we must hurry in, or Miss Watson will
scold. She always does, if we stay out a single minute."
The arithmetic-class was called. And Kitty waited, in some trepidation,
till the question came to her,—
"Nineteen is how many times five?"
After a little hesitation, she answered, "Three times."
"Is that right?" asked Miss Watson. "How much is three times five?"
"Fifteen," was the answer.
"And how many does it take to make nineteen?"
"Four."
"Well, then, nineteen is how many times five?"
But, having missed the preliminary steps of the lesson, Kitty was still
puzzled. And the question passed to the head, when Sylvia answered it
correctly. Kitty missed almost every question that came to her, and at
the end of the lesson was still at the foot of the class. She was very
much mortified when Miss Watson said to her,—
"I shall excuse you this time, Kitty, because you are a new scholar.
But hereafter, I shall expect you to study your lesson before you come
to the class."
She was so much occupied in thinking about it, that when they came to
spell (which was soon after) she missed a word which she knew perfectly
well, and a little girl only ten years old, who had been at the head
the day before, went above her.
Kitty cried with shame and vexation as she was going home. And, as
usual, she was disposed to throw the blame upon anybody but herself.
Miss Watson did not give her any time in the spelling-class; she did
not wait for her half as long as she did for some of the others; and,
as for the arithmetic, Miss Watson ought to have told her how hard it
was.
She was determined, however, not to let her aunt know that she had
missed. And when Mrs. Evelyn asked her how she liked the school, she
answered, carelessly, that she "liked it very well so far."
In the afternoon, things went better. She studied her grammar-lesson
faithfully, and succeeded not only in keeping her place, but in going
up three places. There was one thing in which she excelled: she read
better than any girl in the school; and Miss Watson commended her
highly, and held her up as an example to the rest of the school. She
praised her writing, too, which was very neat and legible, and thus
smoothed the ruffled plumes of her vanity,—so that she went home quite
satisfied with the school, herself and her teacher.
Myra Clark and Sylvia Grey stayed after school to draw, and Kitty
thought she should like to draw too, and determined to ask her aunt
about it. She was walking slowly homeward, when she was joined by
Selina.
"Well, how do you think you shall like the school?" was her first
question.
"I think I shall like it very well when I get used to it," replied
Kitty,—"especially if aunt will let me take drawing-lessons."
"I should not think you would want to do that," said Selina, looking
rather annoyed. "Miss Watson is very strict with the girls, and I don't
believe that you would like Myra and Sylvia very much,—Silver Grey the
little girls call her. Not but that she is a good little thing enough,
but she is so precise and tiresome; and—only think—Myra lived out in
the village last winter, like any common hired girl!"
"Did she?" asked Kitty, in surprise. "She does not look at all like a
servant."
"She certainly did," replied Selina, positively. "She lived at Mrs.
Stewart's, and did her work, for I heard Mrs. Stewart tell mother that
Myra was the only girl she ever had that she felt it really safe to
leave the baby with. And besides that, she opened the door one day when
mother and I called there! Mother laughed when she heard that Miss
Watson was teaching her drawing, and said it would be more sensible to
give her lessons in cooking. I dare say Sylvia would work out too, only
her mother cannot spare her; and so Miss Watson is educating her for a
teacher.
"If I were you, Kitty, I would let it alone. I am sure you can learn to
draw easily enough any time, you are so quick; and you don't want to
spend all your time studying while you are in the country. You can have
a drawing-master when you go home, I dare say; and you will soon learn
more than Miss Watson knows. I don't believe she draws so very well,
after all."
Whatever Selina's motive was, she had touched Kitty's weak point and
gained her purpose. Kitty said nothing about the drawing-lessons when
she went home.
The next day, she was careful to study her arithmetic-lesson
beforehand, and did not miss once in that or any other class, besides
going up two places in spelling. The week passed away quietly, with no
very important events, and Kitty began to think she should enjoy going
to school very much, after all. She had struck up a violent intimacy
with Selina Henshaw; and they walked to and from school together,
played together in recess, used each other's books and pencils, and met
every morning with as many kisses as if they had been parted for years.
Selina had brought about an exchange of seats with the girl who sat
on the other side of Kitty, and now shared the same desk with her
friend,—not much, it must be confessed, to the advantage of her
lessons, for Selina was in inveterate whisperer, and Kitty was only too
ready to be led away by her bad example.
Miss Watson was considerably annoyed, but she reflected that Selina's
friendships were not apt to be of long duration, and the evil would
probably cure itself before long.
"Aunt," said Kitty, on Saturday, "may I go over and spend the afternoon
with Selina? She asked me."
"I have no objections," said Mrs. Evelyn, "provided you are careful not
to get into any mischief, and are sure to come home before dark."
"I will," promised Kitty.
And away she went rejoicing, to spend the afternoon with her friend.
They passed it very pleasantly, as Kitty thought, rambling over the
fields and in the woods, gathering flowers, and wading in the brook
with their shoes and stockings off. At last, Selina proposed that, as
they were so near, they should go over and see Sylvia Grey.
"She lives in that little bit of a red house under the hill. Isn't it a
funny little place?"
"I think it is very pretty," said Kitty: "but what a long way she has
to go to school! I wonder she can come as regularly as she does, I am
sure."
"Well, Sylvia is very persevering, I will say that for her," said
Selina; "and, besides, she is anxious to get a good education, so that
she can be a teacher herself by-and-by. I heard Anne tell mother that
she did not mean to have Sylvia sew for a living, as 'she' had been
obliged to do. Isn't it ridiculous?"
Kitty could not see the absurdity, but she laughed because her friend
did. And they proceeded together across the fields, Selina entertaining
her companion with anecdotes of the absurd pride of the Greys, who
would get along any way rather than ask for any thing, though every one
knew that they had hard work to get through the winter.
"And do you believe, Kitty, that when Mrs. Stewart sent them a load of
wood, Anne insisted on doing sewing for Mrs. Stewart to pay for it. And
when Mrs. Stewart would not let her do that, she worked a beautiful
handkerchief on some grass linen she had—some that was given to her
mother before she was married, I believe—and sent it to Mrs. Stewart
as a present! Now, that is just a sample of them. For my part, I don't
believe in such pride. I think it is sinful."
Indeed, Selina had no pride which prevented her receiving presents to
any amount, as Kitty well knew; for she had already begged two of her
books, besides availing herself largely of Kitty's liberal supply of
writing-paper, pencils, &c.
They entered Mrs. Grey's little front yard, filled to overflowing with
aim sorts of flowers, common and rare, and saw Sylvia very busy weeding
a border, with her head so closely bent over her work that she did not
see her visitors till Kitty playfully clapped her hands over her eyes,
saying,—
"Guess whose fingers are all these!"
"Kitty Maynard's," replied Sylvia, joyously: "I know the voice. I
wondered whether you were ever coming to see me."
"And somebody else," said Kitty. "Here is Selina, too."
Kitty could not help thinking that Sylvia was not quite so glad to see
Selina, but she welcomed her with all due kindness.
"Come into the house and rest yourselves," she said, leading the way
into the front room and placing chairs for them. "I am sure you must be
tired with such a long walk, especially as you are not used to walking."
"'I' am used to it," said Kitty. "I walk a great deal farther than this
when I am at home. I think people walk much more in the city than you
do in the country."
"Of course they do," said Selina; "because there is so much more to see
that they do not think of the distance."
"More to see in the city?" repeated Sylvia, doubtfully.
"Why, yes, of course,—the shops, and people, and all. In the country
there is nothing to be seen but fields and trees and rocks; and it is
stupid work to walk, isn't it, Kitty?"
"I don't think so," replied Kitty. "It is a great deal pleasanter
to walk on the grass than on the pavements. And I would rather go
to school by the cross-road than down Euston Street, where there is
nothing to be seen but high brick houses. And I think cows are a great
deal prettier than milk-carts, though I am afraid of them."
Sylvia laughed merrily, but Selina drew herself up as if she was rather
offended, and changed the subject by asking how Mrs. Grey was.
"She is about the same," said Sylvia, her bright look vanishing as she
spoke. "I do not think she has felt as well for three or four days. I
will go and tell her that you are here, for I am sure she would like to
see you, Kitty, if she feels able to talk. I told her about you, and
she says she used to know your mother when she was a little girl, and
went to school with her."
Sylvia was gone some time, and Selina amused herself by making
sarcastic comments upon the room and its furniture.
"See the darns in the carpet, Kitty," she whispered; "I wonder if I
could count them. I suppose they would not use a rag carpet for the
world,—they are so genteel. And look at that waiter stuck up behind the
table. I thought people generally kept such things in pantries; didn't
you? Did you ever see such a quantity of books? I wonder where they got
them all. I should think people as poor as they are might get along
without taking two or three papers."
Kitty laughed, though rather faintly. She thought the room looked very
pretty, in spite of darned carpet and green paper shades. And she
instinctively felt that it was very ill-bred in Selina to make such
comments in a house where she had been received with so much kindness.
Sylvia returned presently, and led the way into the next room, where
they found Mrs. Grey sitting up in a large rocking-chair. She was very
neatly dressed in a pretty calico wrapper and plain cap, and looked
very nice and ladylike. It might be in the invalid dress and plain cap,
but Kitty thought at once that Mrs. Grey resembled her mother, and felt
attached to her directly.
"I hope you are better to-day," she said, as Mrs. Grey kissed her.
"Sylvia said yesterday that you were not as well."
"I am better, thank you, my dear. This has been a trying week both for
me and the girls, but I hope the worst is over by this time."
"I suppose you don't know much about sickness, Miss Kitty?" observed
Anne Grey, who was sitting by the window, busily employed in binding
shoes.
"Oh, yes!" replied Kitty. "My mother is sick all the time. She had not
been out of her room in five months when she went away. I do hope she
will be better when she comes back. It is so much pleasanter when she
is able to be down-stairs. Sylvia says you used to know my mother,
ma'am," she continued, turning to Mrs. Grey.
"Yes: we went to school together for two or three years, and were great
friends. Healthy, romping girls we were,—full of life and fun, and
always projecting and carrying out some wild scheme or other."
"Oh, please tell me about them!" said Kitty, eagerly. "I do love to
hear such stories; and mother is hardly ever strong enough to tell me."
"I am not very well able to talk this afternoon, my dear," replied Mrs.
Grey, kindly. "But if you will come over some other time, I will see
what I can do to amuse you. Sylvia shall tell you some day when I feel
pretty well, and you must come home with her and stay to tea."
Kitty accepted the invitation with great pleasure. And being reminded
by Selina that they must get home in time for tea, they took their
leave, after Sylvia had gathered a pretty bouquet for each of them,
and Anne had given Kitty some fine young snapdragon-plants for her own
garden. She offered Selina some, but that young lady refused them, with
ill-concealed disdain, observing that they had plenty of flowers at
home.
"What a wonderful present!" she remarked, contemptuously, as they were
walking towards home. "If I were you, Kitty, I would throw them away
and not be bothered with them. I am sure I won't carry these rubbishy
flowers all the way home: we have got enough of our own."
And she gave them a toss into the brook, but Kitty rescued them.
"Don't throw them away! Give them to me, if you don't want them. I
think it was very kind in Anne and Sylvia. What a lovely woman Mrs.
Grey is!"
"Lovely, indeed!" said Selina. "Her skin is as wrinkled as a frozen
apple. I hope you think Sylvia is lovely, too, with her face all over
freckles?"
"I think she is very pleasant," replied Kitty, resolutely; "and she has
very sweet manners. I am sure she was as polite to us as anybody could
be; and I mean to ask aunt to let me go and see her again very soon."
"Very well, Kitty," said Selina, colouring deeply. "If you like Sylvia
Grey so much better than you do me, you may take her for your friend
and leave me alone. I never thought you would act so."
And she burst into tears and sobbed violently,—much to Kitty's
amazement as well as distress, for she could not imagine what she had
said to produce such an outburst.
"What are you crying about?" she asked.
"I thought you loved me, and were going to be my friend forever,"
Selina continued, still sobbing. "I'm sure you said you would. I never
liked anybody so much as I did you, and I never thought you would
forsake me for Sylvia Grey. I wish I was dead, I do; for nobody ever
loves me as well as I do them!" And the disconsolate damsel sat down on
a log and wept fresh torrents of tears.
"But I haven't deserted you, Selina," said Kitty, much disturbed.
"Cannot I like two people at once? Of course I do not like Sylvia as
much as I do you, but you need not be jealous of her coming to see me.
Come: don't cry any more."
"I can't help being jealous," said Selina, the shower of tears
subsiding a little: "it is in my very nature; and if I love any one, I
don't want them to care for any one else. Nobody loves me as well as I
do them, and I suppose that is the reason."
"Oh, Selina!—Your mother?"
"Mother don't love me much," said Selina. "If she did, she would not
find so much fault with me. She cares a great deal more for Mary than
she does for me; and so does aunt, and everybody—"
"You should not say so," interrupted Kitty. "It is not right to speak
so of your mother."
"And you too," continued Selina, again bursting into tears at this
reproof. "You think I am the worst girl in the world because I want to
have my mother love me. But I shall always love you, Kitty, whatever
you—"
The remainder of the sentence was lost in sobs.
Kitty endeavoured to soothe her friend's wounded sensibilities by new
protestations of affection.
And Selina at last wiped her eyes and allowed herself to be comforted.
"I know I am very foolish," she said, kissing Kitty; "but I love you so
much, and you are so superior to any friend I ever had, that I could
not bear to think of your liking any one better than you do me."
Kitty felt very much flattered by all these proofs of affection and
admiration, though she could not help thinking it would be rather
inconvenient to have them often repeated. The girls walked home with
their arms round each other's necks, and exchanged numberless kisses
at parting, Selina declaring that she could not forgive herself for
thinking Kitty would ever desert her for such a child as Sylvia Grey.
She tried to extort from her a promise that she would not accept Mrs.
Grey's invitation, but in this she did not succeed. Kitty loved her
mother better than anybody else in the world; and the mere idea that
she and Mrs. Grey had been girls together was enough to attract her to
the latter.
When she got home, she described her visit to Sylvia, and asked her
aunt's permission to accept her mother's invitation.
"I shall be very glad to have you go and see Sylvia," said Mrs. Evelyn.
"She is one of the loveliest girls I know; and you can gain nothing
but good from her. But, Kitty, remember another time that, if I give
you permission to go to one place, you must not go to another without
coming home and asking first."
"Selina wanted to go," said Kitty.
"Yes, I know; and I do not blame you this time, but take care not to do
it again."
"But, aunt, what difference does it make whether I am at Mrs. Henshaw's
or Mrs. Grey's, so long as you said I might go out?"
"Because, my dear, I choose to know where you are."
"I don't see what harm I could get into round here," persisted Kitty.
"It is not like being in the city; and even there, mother was not
nearly so particular as you are, Aunt Sarah."
"I am not at leisure to argue the point, even if I thought it best to
do so," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "But now that you know what my wishes are,
I expect that you will be guided by them."
Kitty pouted, but just now her curiosity was too strong to allow of
her indulging in a fit of obstinate silence, as she might have done at
another time.
"Has Mrs. Grey ever been rich, aunt?" she inquired.
"What made you think of that?" asked Mrs. Evelyn, in return.
"I don't know. There is something about them that makes me feel as if
they might some time have been better off: they are so—"
"Refined?" said Mrs. Evelyn, as Kitty hesitated. "Is that what you
mean?"
"Yes, aunt;—so different from poor people, generally, that work for a
living."
"I suspect you have not been in the way of knowing much about people
that work for a living," remarked Mrs. Evelyn. "But to answer your
question. The Greys have never been rich, though they were at one
time comparatively well off. Mrs. Grey was the only daughter of a
school-master who was for many years at the head of Barton Academy, and
she received an excellent education. She married Mr. Grey when they
were both quite young, and for a while they were very prosperous. But
his health failed entirely, his mind became affected, and the whole
burden of the family-support came upon Mrs. Grey.
"Mr. Grey died soon after Sylvia was born; and about four years after,
a distant relative left Mrs. Grey this little place of twenty-five
acres and about six hundred dollars in money. It was a most timely
provision; for between hard work and the effects of a severe fever,
Mrs. Grey's health failed about that time, and she became a confirmed
invalid. They rent their land, which brings them in something, but they
are often much straitened: and I do not know what would become of them
but for the industry and good management of Anne and Sylvia."
"Selina says they have so much pride," observed Kitty. "She says they
cannot bear to be helped by anybody."
"They have too much self-respect to accept of assistance so long as
they can do without it," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "I have never found them
at all unwilling to accept of neighbourly services when they needed
them. If you believe all Selina's tales, Kitty, you will have a poor
opinion of your neighbours."
"You don't like Selina, aunt?" said Kitty.
"I never have said that I did not like her," said Mrs. Evelyn, smiling.
"I think Selina has considerable capabilities, and that her impulses
are often very good, but she is quite undisciplined, and has no
principle."
"I think that is rather hard, aunt," said Kitty, indignantly, "to say
she has no principle!"
"Understand me, Kitty. I did not say that she has bad principles: that
is quite another thing. What I mean to say is that she acts entirely
from impulse, and has no settled rule of duty to guide her actions. She
does not do things because they are right, or leave them undone because
they are wrong, but acts just as she feels at the moment, however that
may happen to be. Especially, she gives altogether too much license to
her tongue, particularly in talking about her elders, as I dare say you
have found out by this time."
Kitty could not deny this, remembering what Selina had said about Mrs.
Watson and Mrs. Grey, and even about her own mother.
"But don't you think, aunt," she persisted, "that people ought always
to say what they think?"
"Not always, by any means," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "In the first place,
we ought not to cherish unkind thoughts of or towards our neighbours;
and in the second place, if we have such thoughts, we have no right to
injure others, or make them uncomfortable, by clothing them in words.
If we cannot control our unamiable tempers, we can at least keep them
to ourselves."
Kitty went away, thinking that her aunt was very unjust to Selina,
and that she understood her friend much better; whereas, she did not
understand her at all. And so ended her first week at school.