AUNT DORINDA IS SURPRISED.
"SO you think Cathy can be cured," said Ethel, as they were riding
homeward.
"I am not so sure, of course, but I think so," replied the doctor. "It
will be a slow business, and I may not succeed at all, but I mean to
try. I wonder if she would be willing to go to the hospital. It would
be a great deal better for her. It is miserable for her to lie there
alone, all day; and she is liable to hurt herself just as she did
to-day, and so, perhaps, undo in a minute all that can be done for her
in a month."
"It would be better; and yet, the sisters would find it hard to be
separated," said Ethel. "Mary Anne seems to look upon Cathy rather as a
child than as a sister."
"She is a good deal older than Catherine, is she?"
"Oh, yes! I should say she was near forty; but she may not be so old as
she looks."
"You see, they are separated almost all the time, as it is," remarked
the doctor. "Mary Anne is away all day. I dare say, too, they do not
live very plentifully."
"I should think not, from what I saw to-day," said Ethel. "I went into
their pantry to look for a glass. It was as clean as possible, but
there seemed to be very little of anything to eat."
"And the girl needs nourishing food above all things. Well, we will
see what can be done. Dear, how did you ever find courage to play the
doctor?"
"I did not find it, brother,—it was given to me," said Ethel, in a low
voice. "I could not have believed it myself. Of course, Cathy told me
what to do, and I would not see her suffering so when I was able to
help her."
"I always said you had the stuff in you," remarked the doctor; "but
I never saw any one come out as you have done lately. It is a great
pleasure to me to see my little girl growing into a woman."
"Or your chicken developing into a tough old hen," said Ethel, laughing
to get rid of a certain choking in her throat, which threatened a
shower of tears. "I shall be able to assert myself as independently as
Aunt Dorinda, before I get through."
"I hope not!" exclaimed the doctor. "One of her is enough for a family."
Ethel went up to her room, and came down looking very quiet and happy,
and like herself again.
"How did you find your friend?" asked Aunt Dorinda.
"She was suffering very much when I went in, but I left her quite
comfortable," replied Ethel. "Matthew came in to see her, and he thinks
she may be very much helped, if not cured."
"Did you have any religious conversation with her this time?"
"Yes; we had a nice talk. I feel as if she had done me a great deal of
good!"
"I don't see how you were likely to do each other much good in that
line," said Aunt Dorinda. "Don't deceive yourself, Ethel. Don't indulge
a false hope."
"Aunt Dorinda, why do you talk to me in that way?" asked Ethel. "Why do
you take it for granted that I am not a Christian?"
"By their fruits ye shall know them," said Aunt Dorinda, oracularly.
"Perhaps you are not the best judge of the fruits," said Ethel,
surprised at her own courage. "A peach might be the best peach in
the world, but if your digestion were out of order, or you had the
jaundice, you might easily think the fruit insipid or bitter. You have
taken a dislike to me for some reason,—I suppose, because I did not
obey you about my dress,—and nothing I can do is right in your eyes.
Isn't it just possible that the fault may be in you, at least as much
as in me?"
Aunt Dorinda coloured scarlet, but she seemed too much astonished to
answer.
"I dare say I am inconsistent a great many times," continued Ethel, in
rather a tremulous voice; "but really and truly, I don't think I am
more so than you are, or than a great many people are whose sincerity I
should never think of doubting. You asked me, the other day, whether I
would be willing to be blind, and I was a good deal troubled because I
could not answer. It made me very unhappy. But I have been talking to
Cathy about it, and I think I see more clearly. Cathy said that trying
to apply such tests to ourselves was borrowing trouble,—that if our
Father sent such trials, he would send the grace to bear them. She said
she never could have believed she would be so contented to lie still
all day, when she used to run all over the fields and walk miles at a
time. And I am sure I never would have thought I could do what I did
to-day. If any one had asked me, I should have said it was impossible;
but when the time came, the help came with it."
Aunt Dorinda sat looking very steadily out into the garden.
"I hope I have not offended you, Aunt Dorinda," said Ethel, presently.
"You know you always say that you like plain speaking."
"Plain speaking is one thing, and—but it does not signify," said
Aunt Dorinda. "You are the first person who ever told me that I was
prejudiced and inconsistent. There, don't say any more, child. Perhaps
I have no right to complain, but it is hard, at my age, to be reproved
by a girl like you."
"I did not mean to reprove you, Aunt Dorinda; I only meant to defend
myself."
"It is best to defend ourselves without hurting other people!" said
Miss Atwood.
"But that is not always possible," returned Ethel; "and, indeed, I am
sorry if I hurt you. But you did hurt me cruelly!"
The entrance of Dr. and Mrs. Ray interrupted the conversation, much to
Ethel's relief.
All through dinner Miss Atwood was very silent, and she retired to her
room very early.
"What ails Aunt Dorinda?" said Emily.
"I am afraid I have offended her mortally," said Ethel; "but she
drove me into a corner, and even chickens must fight under such
circumstances. I told her I did not think that I was more inconsistent
than herself. She seemed perfectly amazed, and wondered that any one
could think she was inconsistent!"
"No doubt! People who pride themselves on always speaking their minds
will rarely bear any plain speaking from others."
All the next day Miss Atwood was very cool and distant to Ethel. She
absolutely declined to take any interest in the discussion about
Catherine Lee, and spent the most of her time in her own room, writing
letters. The next day she announced that she was going away.
"But is not that rather sudden, Aunt Dorinda?"
"Yes; I meant to spend most of the summer with you, but I have changed
my plans. I see I can be of no use here, and I cannot afford to pass my
time in mere visiting. Life is too short for that!"
"I hope nobody has offended you, aunt," said the doctor.
"Nobody has offended me. I am not one to be offended!" replied Miss
Atwood, solemnly. "I had hoped, when I came, to be of great use to
Emily and Ethel both—to Ethel especially, who, I hoped, from her
youth, would be easily influenced and trained into a useful woman. But
I see that I can do nothing. Ethel is devoted to dress and vanity—to
self, in short; and everything I can say only gives her food for more
self-deception!"
"I think you do Ethel great injustice!" said Emily, very much vexed
with this attack. "She is not selfish,—very far from it; and as to her
being fond of dress, it has been hard work for her to learn to pay a
proper attention to it."
"That is all nonsense, Emily! Do you think I cannot read a girl like
Ethel?"
"Which do you think more likely to understand Ethel's character, her
own brother and sister, who have always known her, or yourself?"
"Well, we won't quarrel, just as I am going away," said Miss Atwood.
"Maybe I am mistaken in Ethel; I am sure I hope so. I was always fond
of you, Matthew, and I wanted to love your wife and sister, and to
have them love me. But I don't know how it is. There is your Aunt
Cecilia, who has not a dozen clear ideas in her head,—she is all soft
and sweet like a—a great charlotte russet!" said Miss Atwood, rather
at a loss for a comparison. "I don't mean that she isn't sincere and
good, and all that; but what does she amount to? All she ever does is
to look pretty, and dress nicely, and spoil children, and crochet baby
blankets, and knit baby's socks, and give away little useless presents.
I don't believe she ever cared half as much for anybody as I do; and
yet everybody is glad to see her, and sorry when she goes away,—and
nobody cares when I go away!" added Miss Atwood, winking suspiciously.
"The very people I have done the most for would keep out of my way if
they could. It is very hard, but I suppose there is no help for it!"
"I don't know exactly what the charm is about Mrs. Bland!" said Emily.
"But her manner is certainly very lovely. It is a kind of rest to be in
the room with her. She has the knack of entering into one's feelings
and finding out what one wants. She may not be very original or
profound, but she is very kind and gentle."
"Well, well, I don't want to hear her praises over again. I have had
Mrs. Bland held up to me as a model till I am sick of her."
"I did not mean to hold her up as a model to you, aunt."
"But you think I ought to take pattern by her, nevertheless."
"Perhaps we might all take pattern from one another, in certain
things," said Emily, mildly. "You might learn a good deal from Aunt
Cecilia, and she might borrow with advantage from you. For my part, I
mean to learn from both of you."
"Well, I dare say I am a disagreeable, interfering old woman," said
Aunt Dorinda, in a burst of frankness. "I don't know but I am rather
too fond of giving advice, but it is hard to refrain when you see
people going wrong. Maybe I was hard upon Ethel, too. I have my own
notions, and they seem to me to be right ones, and, according to them,
Ethel is wrong in many things; but perhaps I judged her hastily, as you
say. I can't make people like me, and I don't suppose I ever shall, but
I don't bear malice. Matthew, I wish you would take this money and use
it for that lame girl, according to your discretion; and this is for
Ethel's sewing class."
"Oh, Aunt Dorinda, how kind you are!" exclaimed Emily. "But please
don't go away now, or I shall think you are offended with us. Do stay
another week, at least."
After a good deal of urging Miss Atwood consented; and, really, the
week was a pleasanter one than had ever been spent in Aunt Dorinda's
company before. Emily and Ethel took care to pay her a great deal of
attention.
Ethel asked her to go to the sewing-school, and Miss Atwood went; and
she not only found no fault, but she made every child in the school a
present of a cheap but useful pair of scissors, and a good-sized cake.
She went to see Cathy Lee, and had a long talk with her, in which she
discovered the means of doing the poor girl a great favour.
"Can you work, at all?" asked Miss Atwood.
"I cannot sew," replied Cathy; "but I can crochet. I make tatting,
sometimes, but it is rather apt to make my shoulder ache."
"Can you crochet nicely, so as to make baby-things?"
"Oh yes, ma'am! I can do all such work. But worsted costs money; and I
don't like to ask Mary Anne to buy it for me, though I know she would
in a minute."
"It would be nice if you could have work from the fancy shops,"
remarked Ethel.
"I have thought of that; but we don't know anybody here, and people
might not like to trust a stranger."
"Aunt Dorinda, would you mind sitting here while I run over to speak to
Matty McHenry a minute?" asked Ethel. "I will not be gone long."
"What a sweet young lady Miss Dalton is!" remarked Cathy, when Ethel
was gone. "She and that Miss Burgers are doing a great deal of good
here."
"You think their influence is good, then? I am glad to hear it."
"Oh yes, excellent; especially among the young girls. They have such
pretty, cordial manners; and then, they don't interfere without reason,
as some ladies do."
Miss Atwood winced a little.
"That Matty McHenry has been a different girl since she began to go
to Sunday-school. I can see a great change in her dress and manners;
and when she comes to see me, she is talking about her sewing class,
and the books Miss Burgers lends her, instead of just the gossip and
scandal of the neighbourhood. She brings her Bible lesson to me, that I
may help her find out the questions, and I think she begins to feel a
real interest in religious matters. It will be a grand thing if she is
drawn in, for she is the leader of all the girls about her, and has a
great deal of influence."
"Have you had any direct religious conversation with her?" asked Miss
Atwood.
"Only as it grew out of the lessons. I did not think it best. She seems
to be going on so well that I did not like to run the risk of doing
mischief by interfering. I can speak a word or two in connection with
the lessons without her taking alarm; when, if I were to begin on her
personally, she might be startled, and not come again. She perfectly
worships Miss Dalton and Miss Burgers."
"Perhaps you are right!" said Miss Atwood, sighing. "How do you feel
about going to the hospital?"
"At first I could not bear the thought of it, but I am getting
reconciled now," replied Cathy. "I think, if it is finally decided that
I must go, I shall make up my mind to it—or have it made up for me!"
she added, smiling.
"How have it made up for you?" asked Miss Atwood.
"Why, generally I don't find much use in trying to make myself feel
right about things," replied Cathy. "Most times, the more I try to make
myself feel charitable, or contented, or loving, the more I can't do
it, especially since I have been sick. But I think I have found out a
better way. I tell the Lord all about it, and ask him to make me feel
as I ought to, and then I just wait; and by-'n-by the right feeling
comes, without my knowing how. Sometimes I go to sleep feeling just as
bad as I can, and when I wake up in the morning it is all right with
me."
"How long have you been a Christian, Cathy?" asked Miss Atwood.
"I'm sure I don't know," Cathy replied. "My mother was one of the best
women that ever lived, and I had a first-rate Sunday-school teacher.
I always loved to go to church and Sunday-school, and to read in the
Bible, and it kind of grew up with me. I remember how I used to study
over my lesson going cross-lots to Sunday-school," continued Cathy,
dreamily. "I used to go along by the side of the outlet quite a ways,
and then through a piece of woods where there were some big pine-trees,
that, when the wind blew, used to be always saying, 'Hush! Hush!' And
when I had time, I used to sit down under a tree and learn a hymn or
something. When I shut my eyes and say over some of those verses, it
seems just as though I could hear the wind in the leaves and the water
going over the dam, and smell the smell of the woods. Sometimes I
wonder whether there will be such places in heaven: do you think there
will? It tells about the river of the water of life and the tree of
life on both sides of the river, in the Revelation, you know."
"There will be everything that is best and pleasantest for us; of that
we may be sure," said Miss Atwood. She had come prepared with her
several formulas of questions and texts, whereby she meant to find out
whether Catherine Lee were truly a Christian; but somehow the listening
to the sick girl's simple memories and experiences put them all out
of her head. She perceived that it gave Cathy pleasure to talk of her
country life, and she was really for once content to listen and let
her companion go on to express herself in her own way; whereby she
showed that though she had been teaching others all her life, she had
not quite lost what the good and wise German calls "the divine art of
learning."
"I am afraid I have kept you waiting a long time, aunt," said Ethel,
apologetically. "Matty had so much to say about her scholars and other
matters that I could not get away."
"I have been having such a nice visit from your aunt," said Cathy.
"Please do come and see me again, Miss Atwood. I should be so glad to
see you!"
"Ethel," said Miss Atwood, after some minutes of profound silence, "do
you know, that with all my visiting among the poor, this is the very
first time that any poor person asked me heartily to call again?"
Ethel did not know exactly what to reply.
"And yet I said very little to her," continued Aunt Dorinda, musingly.
"I just listened, and let her run on."
"Perhaps that was the reason," Ethel ventured to say. "I suppose
everybody likes to be listened to, sometimes; and Cathy is alone so
much that she likes to talk when she has an opportunity. Don't you
think she is a nice girl, aunt?"
"I should say she was one of the Lord's little ones," replied Aunt
Dorinda. "What is the other sister like?"
"I don't know Mary Anne so well," replied Ethel. "She is older and more
reserved, and I think she is of a disposition to take things harder
than Cathy; but I am sure she is a good Christian woman, and very
independent. I liked it of her that she was determined to pay at least
a part of Cathy's board at the hospital herself."
"Yes; it showed the right spirit," replied Miss Atwood. "Is there a
worsted store anywhere on our way home, Ethel?"
"Oh yes, Aunt Dorinda, a very nice one. Would you like to stop?" asked
Ethel, much wondering what Aunt Dorinda, with her hatred and contempt
of fancy-work, could want in a worsted store.
"Yes; I want to buy some things." Miss Atwood did not seem disposed to
talk; so Ethel walked on in silence till they came to the place.
"Here is the shop," said Ethel. "It is not so showy as some of those
over the river, but Mrs. Randall keeps the best of everything, and she
can tell you just what you want to know about patterns and quantities,
and so on; and she is always ready to answer questions."
"So much the better," said Miss Atwood. "I hate show, and I like to
have people understand their business. Now, Ethel, I want you to pick
out everything necessary for some baby blankets and jackets, and other
worsted things; and send all the materials to Cathy. I will leave you
money to pay her for making, if you can find out the proper price."
"Mrs. Randall can tell us all about it," said Ethel, delighted beyond
measure. "How good of you, Aunt Dorinda! It will give so much pleasure."
Aunt Dorinda sat by with marvellous patience while Ethel and Mrs.
Randall discussed shades and patterns, and even condescended to
pronounce an opinion upon two differing styles of border.
Mrs. Randall was much interested in Cathy's story, and promised, if
she succeeded in her present undertaking, to give her all the work she
could do.
"I have a beautiful new pattern for a shawl, Miss Ethel," said she.
"You spoke some time ago about making a large one, like Miss Fleming's,
you know."
"Yes, I know," said Ethel. "I did mean to make one for myself, but I
have spent the money in another way, so I can't afford it just now."
Mrs. Randall smiled significantly. She was herself a Sunday-school
teacher, and she guessed where the money had gone.
"Mission schools and sewing-schools are expensive luxuries," said she.
"I know that from my own experience. And, by-the-by, I must give you
some needles and thread for your school. So you think you will not make
the shawl?"
"I really and truly cannot afford it now, Mrs. Randall, I am sorry to
say. Thank you, just as much for the offer of the pattern."
"Ethel, did you really spend the money you had meant for your shawl on
your sewing class?" asked Miss Atwood, after they had left the shop.
"Yes, aunt; I did not need it so very much, you see. I wished to make
it because I like such work, and the shawls are pretty and becoming;
but then I could do without it well enough."
"How do you manage your charities?" asked Miss Atwood. "Do you lay by a
certain sum for them?"
"No, aunt; I never thought of doing that. I take them just as they
come."
"And don't you sometimes find yourself out of money for such objects
when you want it the most?"
"I certainly do," answered Ethel, considering. "Last Saturday I wanted
half a dollar for the Home Mission collection, and I had not a cent."
"Shall I tell you what I think is a better way of managing?"
"If you please, aunt."
"The way I do is to lay by always a certain proportion of my
income,—say, for illustration, ten per cent.," said Miss Atwood. "When
my money comes in, I take out that much, whatever the proportion may
be, and lay it aside. I say to myself, 'Now that is mine no longer;
it belongs to charity,' and I never touch it on any account. Thus you
see I can make a pretty exact calculation of my resources,—so much for
missions, so much for the Sunday-school, and so always leaving a margin
for unforeseen calls."
"I see," said Ethel; "I think it is an excellent way, and I mean to try
it. But, aunt, I am sure you spend a great deal more than ten per cent.
of your income on charity!"
"Maybe I do. That is none of your business, Miss," returned Miss
Atwood, good-humoredly. "I should say ten per cent. was as much as you
ought to lay by, at least to begin with, so long as you have to dress
yourself out of your allowance. When you are richer, you can lay by a
larger percentage, if you like."
"But the proportion would be the same, whether I had much or little,
wouldn't it?" asked Ethel, doubtfully.
"In figures, but not in reality. Twenty dollars bears the same
proportion to two hundred that two hundred does to two thousand; but
suppose a man earns two hundred dollars, and gives away twenty, how
much does he have left?"
"One hundred and eighty."
"But suppose he gives away two hundred out of two thousand, how much
does he have left?"
"Eighteen hundred," replied Ethel. "I understand now what you mean. It
would be a greater gift for Cathy to give away forty cents out of the
four dollars she will earn by her crochet-work than it would be for me
to give twenty dollars, because she would have so much less left. Thank
you very much, Aunt Dorinda."
The next afternoon Ethel carried the bundle of wool up to Cathy, who
was as much delighted as was to be expected. Mary Anne, who was at
home, was equally pleased.
"It's more to her a great deal than if any one had given her the
money," said she to Ethel, outside the door. "Even if she earns ever so
little, it will be a comfort to her, besides the pleasure of the work.
The only thing she ever frets about is that I have to work so hard, and
she can't do anything. I tell her she does as much for me as I do for
her, but she can't always feel so. I don't know what I shall do without
her to come home to!" continued Mary Anne, looking straight before her.
"At first I thought I couldn't have it so, no way; but the doctor made
me see 't was best for her, so of course I gave in. Sometimes I think
I must quit house keeping and go to service somewhere while she is in
the hospital; but then there are the things. They ain't many nor worth
much, to be sure, but they are all that's left of our old home, and I
should hate to part with them."
"Of course," said Ethel; "but the things might be stored somewhere."
"Well, I'll think it over," said Mary Anne, and then added earnestly,
"Miss Dalton, you'll never know in this world how much good you've
done me. That Sunday when you came in first, I was ready to give up in
despair. I couldn't see no comfort nowhere. I was tired to death with
my work, and the folks below were making such a noise; Cathy was kind
of low and discouraged, too, which is very uncommon with her; and I
did feel so bad. It seemed just as if the Lord had forgot me, somehow,
'like a broken vessel,' as the Psalm says; and there wasn't and never
would be anything but noise, and confusion, and hard work, forever.
Then you came in, looking so nice and pretty and sweet, with your
flowers,—I declare for 't I never thought what folks were made handsome
for before, and you sat down and talked so kind of quiet and cheerful,
and the flowers you brought were so sweet.
"I ain't good at expressing my feelings, as Cathy is, but somehow I
seemed to realize that God was in the world, after all, and hadn't left
it to run on by itself, as some folks say. It was just as though he had
sent you to me with a message."
Ethel had not many words wherewith to answer, but she kissed Mary
Anne's hard, tanned cheek with real sisterly affection; and went home
feeling happier, and more humbled in her own eyes, than she had ever
done before. Nothing makes a child of God more lowly, or gives him such
a deep, and, at the same time, comforting sense of his own unworthiness
and littleness, than the conviction that the Master has employed him to
do His own work.
When Ethel went into her own room, she found a large bundle lying
on her bed, and a note in Aunt Dorinda's manly handwriting. Much
surprised, she opened the note, and read as follows:
"DEAR ETHEL:—I think I was wrong, and did you injustice. I 'was'
prejudiced, as you said. Show me that you forgive me by accepting a
little present from me, and making yourself a shawl like the one you
gave up for the sake of your mission class. I think if you and I could
learn to put up with each other's ways, we might do each other good;
and I will try, if you will."
Ethel carried her note and her bundle of wool to Emily, who was both
touched and amused.
"Do you think I ought to take such an expensive present from her,
Emily, when she has done so much for the school already?"
"Of course, my dear. You must not hurt her feelings by refusing,
especially after she has made such a concession. It is the very first
time I ever knew her confess herself mistaken. Perhaps we have been
prejudiced, too, and have allowed ourselves to be blinded by her odd
ways to the good there really is in her. She would be a very useful
woman if she could only be a little more like other folks."
"She was lovely at Cathy's, yesterday," said Ethel; "and all the way
home. And, oh, Cathy was so pleased with her work, and Mary Anne, too!"
"What work?" asked Emily.
"Some crochet-work which Aunt Dorinda sent Cathy. Well, I will begin my
shawl directly, so as to show how much I value it. Do you think I had
better answer her note?"
"I think I would," said Emily.
So Ethel wrote:
"DEAR AUNT DORINDA:—I have just found your pretty present, and thank
you for it ever so much. I feel as if you had done me a deal of good
already; and I am sorry I ever was ungracious to you. Please remember
me, and pray for me."
"Well, I never thought I could feel sorry to see the last of Miss
Atwood," remarked Mrs. Jones, the next day, to Ethel. "If she would
always be as she has been this last week, I would always be glad to
see her. She is a good woman, and no mistake; but she is dreadful
disagreeable sometimes, with her meddling, domineering ways; and
somehow, the disagreeableness of good folks is harder to bear than any
other. You feel as though they hadn't any right to it."