idea! And to think he refused it,” soliloquized Bell, looking even more
longingly than Bennie had done at the bank-note. “What a lot of things
it would buy! If it was only mine,—and I don’t just see why I needn’t.
She’s given it away; of course it can’t make any difference to her who
has it now,” and upon that Bell tied the bill into one corner of her
pocket-handkerchief, and stuffed the handkerchief into the deepest
corner of her pocket.
“Had he gone far? Did you have to run? Why, how red your face is,” said
Cousin Mate when Bell reappeared. “Sit down now and tell me all about
Bennie. Was he glad of the money? Somehow I fancied from the boy’s face
that——but of course all boys like money. Will he be likely to spend
it all for nuts and candy? Because in that case I shall wish I had made
the amount less.”
“I—don’t—think—he—will,” said Bell, busily straightening the
bureau-cover. “He—he’s a very nice boy and a splendid scholar. Mr.
Blackman wanted him to fit for college, but they’re real poor; they
live up-stairs in Mr. Pratt’s house, and Mr. Bowers took him into his
store. They say he makes him work real hard. His father’s gone to sea,
or something. They aren’t exactly in our set; we never call,” concluded
Bell in her grandest manner.
“And it isn’t likely he’ll ever call on me,” said Miss Marvin, smiling,
“My imaginary hero proves to be a real flesh-and-blood boy, honest and
industrious, and willing to be paid for both,—in money rather than in
kindness and sympathy. And so endeth my adventure.”
Bell sincerely hoped so; but as it happened, the next fine day Dr.
Helps called for Miss Marvin to ride with him. It also happened that
one of the doctor’s patients detained him a long time, and that while
Miss Marvin waited, leaning back in his comfortable buggy, Bennie and
his mother passed slowly by, talking very earnestly, and never dreaming
any ears save those belonging to the doctor’s old horse were within
hearing.
“Now, mother, don’t you almost wish,” Bennie was saying, “that I had
taken the ten dollars Miss Marvin offered me?”
“No, Bennie; to know my boy was both honest and honorable, doing right
without hope of reward, gives me more pleasure than a dozen visits
could.”
“But it would be such a nice rest for you, and we haven’t seen Aunt Em
for so many years, and it is _so_ pretty up in Derryford in the summer.”
“I know, Bennie, and the trip would do you a great deal of good, but we
will try to be patient a little longer. God always gives the means when
he sees the end to be best for us.”
That was all Miss Marvin heard.
“I am afraid the shock was more serious than we realized the other
day,” remarked the doctor, as he unfastened his horse; “or have I
tired you all out keeping you waiting in this hot sun?”
Miss Marvin tried to smile and assure him there was nothing the matter.
She couldn’t tell him of the ache way down in her heart to think her
little Bell had deceived her again.
And Bell’s mother! Oh, how shocked she was, and astonished and
mortified! She couldn’t believe it; and when Bell herself confessed it,
and produced the identical bill, it almost broke her heart. Her only
daughter guilty of anything so mean and low and wicked!
Did she forget how, in all the years since God gave that daughter to
her, she had never prayed beside her pillow, had never talked with
her about the all-seeing Eye looking down into our very hearts? that
instead she had taught her, by example as well as precept, to consider
this world “all and in all”?
When the temptation came, strong and unexpected, what was there to
keep the child from yielding? To get is the world’s maxim, to give is
God’s. Poor little Bell had learned only the first; she grasped eagerly
at what seemed good, and found only sorrow and shame.
“It is so pretty up in Derryford in the summer!” Miss Marvin knew that;
she had spent three months there once upon a time, and now she took a
fancy to try a few weeks at the old-fashioned farm-house again. But
she wanted somebody for company, and a nice boy to drive her around
the country. Why weren’t Bennie and his mother the very ones? Bennie
was looking pale, and his mother too. Was it true Mrs. Cargill had a
sister in that very place? Then her plan was certainly the right one.
Miss Marvin certainly made it seem as if she was getting as well as
receiving a favor.
“And now,” cried Bennie, when she had called the second time and
concluded all the arrangements, “it has come, means and all. So much
better than the ten dollars could be!”
V.
GOD’S SIDE THE STRONGEST.
“And he answered, Fear not; for they that _be_ with us _are_
more than they that _be_ with them.”
Papa and Mamma Sherman, Uncle Thed and Aunt Sue were going to the beach
for a day, and wouldn’t be home until very late. Tod was to stay with
Maybee, and Sue had the privilege of asking anybody she pleased for
company. Bell was sick, so she chose Jenny King and Say Ellis. Bridget
attended to dinner and was then allowed the afternoon out. Getting
tea was all the best of it to the children. They put every available
piece of silver on the table, even to the coffee-urn; they didn’t
feel obliged to eat bread-and-butter for manners, but began and ended
with cake and crullers,—Dolly’s crullers, which she had sent over by
Tod “with her compliments.” Tod said he guessed that meant the sugar
outside, “’cause her didn’t always have it on,”—not a bad definition
of compliments in general.
When supper was ready, Tod wanted to say grace as papa did.
“You don’t know how,” said Sue.
“Yes, my does”; and Tod, folding his hands, said very slowly and
gravely,—
“O Lord, for pity’s sake. Amen.”
Nobody laughed, he looked so serious; only Sue began, “I told you——”
“Don’t,” whispered Say. “He meant it all right, and I guess God
understood.”
While they were eating, a rough-looking man came up to the open door
and asked for a drink of water. Tod jumped up at once and handed him
his own little silver mug.
“What a nice boy!” said the tramp. “Wouldn’t he give a poor fellow a
bit of cake, now?”
Maybee hastened to pass the cake-basket, with all the politeness
imaginable.
“My papa’s gone to the beach,” said Tod, trying to be sociable.
“Be back pretty soon?” asked the man.
“Not ’fore ten or ’leven. It’s a great long wide; and Bwidget is goned,
too.”
“Got any dog?” asked the tramp, emptying the cake-basket, much to
Maybee’s discomfiture.
“No; my hasn’t got any dog, ’cept Buff, and her’s a cat. An’ we can’t
say ‘Have some more,’ ’cause you’s eat it all up. Guess you forgot my
cup; mos’ put it in your pocket, didn’t you? S’pose you must go now.
Call again, thank you.”
“Wasn’t he horrid?” said Sue. “I don’t believe you ought to have talked
to him at all.”
“Guess my has to be polite; guess my mamma makes me politerest to poor
folks,” said Tod.
“How he did look at things! S’pose he thought it was pretty nice,” said
Maybee, tossing head very much like Bell Forbush.
“Well, he’s gone, and I’m thankful,” said Sue. “We won’t do the dishes
because we might break something, and Bridget ought to be here pretty
soon. I’ll lock up the silver in the side-board and keep the key till
she comes. Don’t you think, the last time mother let her go, she stayed
till the next day; but of course she won’t to-night.”
But ‘of course’ she did. Eight—nine—ten o’clock. The children shut
the doors and lighted the lamps. Tod began to look sleepy and the older
girls a little anxious. They tried to while away the time telling
stories, and of course recalled all the horrible things they had ever
heard. Each little heart gave a great thump when a loud rap sounded on
the side door.
“It’s only me,” said a whining voice. “You’re such nice children,
you’ll let a poor fellow in to stay all night, I know.”
“Why, it’s my man,” said Tod, wide awake. “Course, he’s got to stay
somewheres nights.”
“But mother says, never open the door after dark, till we know who’s
there. I’ll tell him what mother does,” and raising her voice, Sue
called out, “You must go to Miss Pratt’s boarding house on Walnut
Street. That’s where folks stay.”
“But we ain’t got any money. Just open the door an’ give us a few
cents, can’t ye?”
“We mustn’t open the door,” gasped Jenny, “for don’t you know, when
they get in they murder folks and everything.”
Tod gave a howl, and disappeared under the sofa.
“You sha’n’t come in—never!” screamed Maybee, stamping her foot.
“Open the door, or we’ll break it down,” was the gruff reply, whereat
Maybee vanished under the table as rapidly as Tod had done.
The door began to be violently shaken. With a thoughtfulness quite
beyond her years Sue put out the lights, and grasping the keys of the
side-board tightly in one hand and Tod in the other, she led the way
softly up stairs.
Looking out in the moonlight they could see three men go away from the
door and begin to try the different windows.
“Oh! they’re _so_ big, and there’s only us. They’ll come in and get
everything, and kill us, just as sure. Oh! what shall we do? What shall
we do?” and Sue, her courage suddenly giving way, dropped on the floor,
sobbing and crying as if her heart would break.
“No, no! Don’t you remember,” said Say, her own lips ashy white, “the
side God is on is the strongest, always. He can’t be with those bad,
wicked men, and if he’s with us, we’re a great many the most.”
“I was real bad last week, but I’ve been forgived,” sobbed Maybee.
“My sweared a little swear yes’day, but my didn’t mean to; my said
‘Good Gwacious!’” moaned Tod.
“God doesn’t love us because we’re good,” said Say softly. “You know
we’re all just as bad as can be.”
“I ain’t neither,” said Maybee stoutly. “I ain’t half so wicked as
Tryphosa Harte.”
“Oh, but didn’t you know,” whispered Say, shivering as the back door
rattled noisily, “Tryphosa is trying to be a Christian.”
“I guess I’m bad ’nough, and I’m real sorry,” said Maybee, quite
subdued by another shake of the side door.
“Do you think God—is really close to, near enough to help us?” asked
Sue earnestly. “You ask him, Say; you’re so much better than I.”
They kneeled down in a row beside the bed. Outside, three desperate men
had succeeded in partly raising a window. A little more, and it would
admit them. Miles away, papa and Uncle Thed were driving leisurely
along, never dreaming Bridget had left their dear ones unprotected save
by the Eye that never sleeps.
What was there to prevent a deed of blood, as dreadful as those we read
of almost every day?
What but God’s angels, if so be they were around those helpless little
ones, as they were around the prophet Elisha in olden time,—invisible
but strong.
Farmer Trafton had that day been to Weltford market, ten miles away;
had been belated in disposing of his load, and was slowly jogging
home with his stout hired man beside him. The tramps, swearing at the
unmanageable window, drew back in the shadow to wait till the team had
passed. But just opposite the gate, one of the lynch-pins broke.
“Well now,” said Farmer Trafton, “here’s a pretty go—at this time of
night; all honest folks abed and asleep. How’ll we fix it, Jake? Have
to step in and borrow a bit of Sherman’s wood-pile, sha’n’t we? Hillo!
here, what’s to pay?”
Three men were running swiftly away down the garden and through the
orchard.
“God didn’t send his angels,” said Maybee, when at last she nestled
safely in papa’s strong arms, “but that dear old Mr. Trafton was just
as good, wasn’t he?”
“Betterer,” said Tod sleepily, “’cause we was ’quainted with him, an’
he told us such nice stowies, an’ a hymn; my’s going to learn it.”
VI.
STRONGER THAN PAPA.
“And he said, The things which are impossible with men are
possible with God.”
“Make me a butterfly, papa,” said little Bell,
“His wings all gold and scarlet, trimmed with diamond dust.”
“I could not if I tried; the how I cannot tell,”
Smiled papa. “But,” said little Bell, “Somebody must.”
“My little rose-tree has forgotten its spring dress.
It’s so queer how they change their winter cloak of snow!
Please fix mine over, green and pink, like all the rest.
You can’t? O papa! Why? _Somebody_ does, you know.”
“My birdie died; they had it stuffed; you’d never know
But what it was alive. The trouble is,—ah me!
They quite forgot to put the music in, although
My papa says they can’t. But _Somebody_ did, you see.”
Bell’s papa was so strong and wise she never dreamed
Of danger when he held her; even in the gale,
When the brave captain said, “We’re lost; there is no hope,”
And through the storm and darkness rose a fearful wail.
She nestled closer in his arms, “Mamma, don’t cry!
Papa can take us home all safe to Baby Will.”
“My darling, only _One_,” her father made reply,
“Can say to winds and storm-tossed ocean, ‘Peace! be still.’”
Safe in her own dear home she knelt, our happy Bell,
Saying, “I’m glad there’s Somebody up in heaven above,
Who’s stronger than papa.” Said mamma, “That is well,
But better still, my darling, to know his name is Love.
“He it is, who careth for the sparrows when they fall,
He, who clotheth field and forest, dell and leafy dome;
He who heareth little children, and, the best of all,
Safely leadeth those who love him to his heavenly home.”
VII.
REAL “MINDING.”
“But Jehu took no heed to walk in the law of the Lord God of
Israel with all his heart; for he departed not from the sins of
Jeroboam, which made Israel to sin.”
Maybee stood by the window with a very sober face. There wasn’t much
to see so early in the morning; only the street, a few passers-by, and
over the hills, a spiral of white smoke where the cars were hurrying
away towards the great city, carrying mamma and Sue with them. How
long it would be till night! And mamma had said when she kissed her
good-by, “I want Maybee to do exactly as Aunt Cynthia tells her, all
the whole time. If she gets tired of play, there’s her garden to weed,
the play-room to put in order, and that last seam to sew.”
Now, Aunt Cynthia didn’t like children; she didn’t “like anything much,
except patch-work,” Maybee said, “an’ she must be made of patch-work,
’cause she always had stitches in her back when she was real cross.”
Maybee would never sew patch-work for fear it would make scowls over
her eyes, like Aunt Cynthia’s; so mamma had taught her to sew on soft,
white under-garments for herself and her dollies. That “last seam” was
in a night-dress for Lauretta Luella.
“I’ll sew it right straight up. That’ll please my mamma awfully,”
thought Maybee.
“Ma-b-e-l!” called Aunt Cynthia from up-stairs. “Come here, this
minute, and slick up your bureau-drawers.”
“I’m busy,” said Maybee, threading her needle.
“Never mind; come right along. What would your mother say to things
being tumbled in this way?”
She would say “Put them in order,” Maybee knew. She _had_ said “Mind
Aunt Cynthia.” But Maybee felt more like sewing her seam, and mamma
told her to do that, didn’t she? So the little girl sat still, and
Miss Cynthia, after calling several times, arranged the drawers herself.
[Illustration: “I’ll sew it right straight up.” p 134]
“And now, Mabel,” she said, coming into the parlor with the inevitable
big basket of patch-work, “you can sew very neatly, and I want you to
help me a little while.”
“I can’t,” said Maybee shortly; “mamma wants me to do this.”
Aunt Cynthia could have told Maybee that her mother wanted that
particular red-and-white bed-quilt a great deal the most; for the
Ladies’ Sewing Society, of which Mrs. Sherman was president, were about
sending a barrel to some poor, needy home missionaries, and she wanted
the quilt to put in. But Aunt Cynthia only shut her thin lips tightly
together, and sewed away as fast as she could. Maybee finished her
seam, folded her work up neatly, and laid it where mamma would see it
the first thing.
“Now I’ll weed my garden. Aunt Cynthia, will you please put on my thick
boots?”
“You’re not going one step out of doors; so that matter’s settled,”
said Aunt Cynthia.
Now, mamma would have explained that black, watery clouds had spread
over the blue sky since sun-rise, and a thick, white fog crept up over
the hills and meadows, making it very imprudent for a little girl,
threatened with croup the night before, to go out, even with thick
shoes on. Aunt Cynthia didn’t believe in telling children all the whys.
She insisted on the good, old-fashioned obedience, that never asked
questions; and I’m not sure but it _is_ better than all questions and
no obedience, which is so much the fashion now-a-days.
“She’s cross, and I’m going out anyway,” said Maybee, trying to forget
what mamma said about minding. “That garden _must_ be weeded, and if
she won’t put my boots on I shall go without them.”
She worked busily till noon, the dampness steadily penetrating the thin
slippers and light muslin dress.
“It’s a mercy if you haven’t killed yourself,” said her aunt, who,
buried in her beloved patch-work, had actually forgotten the child.
“Now I must make you a bowl of hot ginger tea,” she continued, forcing
Maybee to lie down on the lounge, and covering her over with half a
dozen blankets, “and you mustn’t stir one foot out of this room again
to-day. Mind, now.”
But Maybee had set her heart on putting the play-room in order.
Mamma never liked such a looking place right off the front hall; so
when Aunt Cynthia started down street, after more calicoes, Maybee
slipped up-stairs, all in a perspiration as she was, and arranged and
re-arranged, swept and dusted the neglected room, sorted out Lauretta
Luella’s scattered ward-robe, and washed her three china tea-sets,
quite unmindful of the cool draught through the hall.
That night mamma found a tired, fretful, little girl, waiting by the
window, with hot, feverish hands, aching head, and smarting throat.
“A very naughty girl!” Aunt Cynthia said severely, “who hadn’t minded
in one single thing.”
“But, mamma, I tried to please you, I did really,” said the hoarse
little voice. “I worked so hard! There’s the play-room and the garden—”
“Yes, dear, they both look very nicely. You deserve the ticket papa
promised when the weeds were all gone, as well as the one you was to
have when Luella’s dress was finished. But, Maybee, think a moment. Did
you do it really to please _me_ or to please _yourself_? Have you been
mamma’s good, obedient little Maybee to-day?”
“It’s nicer _doing things_ than ’tis minding,” said Maybee, hanging her
head.
Sue looked up from the parcel she was untying: “There, mother, that’s
just it. I’ve tried, you know, ever since that night we were so
frightened, to do things to please God; but it’s—it’s the _minding_ I
don’t like.”
“The natural heart loves to do great things,” said Mrs. Sherman,
drawing her eldest daughter closer to her; “it is only the ‘new heart’
that _loves_ to _mind_ God.”
VIII.
AND THE LAST, FIRST.
“The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with this
generation, and shall condemn it; because they repented at the
preaching of Jonas, and behold a greater than Jonas is here.”
Miss Cox was out of town, and Miss Marvin had the Sabbath School
class. The children liked Miss Cox, but thought nobody could equal
Miss Marvin. “Miss Cox gave them good dinners enough,” Dick said, “but
somehow, Miss Marvin made them taste better.” Dick was trying hard to
make up for lost time, and to get the mastery over his mischievous
propensities. He wasn’t trying in his own strength, either. That
first time he asked for and found a Helping Hand wasn’t the last; and
since Aunty McFane told Miss Marvin about Dick, that lady had taken
especial pains to cultivate his acquaintance, chatting with him on all
occasions, and sympathizing in his little trials and failures, till
the two had become firm friends. That may have been one reason why Will
Carter was a bit jealous of Dick; that, and the way he was rising in
favor with Mr. Blackman.
The greatest change, however, was in Tryphosa Harte. You would scarcely
have believed the quiet, happy face at the end of the seat was the
same, Say had seen peering so disagreeably over the roof of the old
house. The sour, ugly mouth was almost always smiling now; the fierce,
scowling eyes were full of eager desire; the loud, coarse voice low
and gentle, and her whole bearing so subdued and yet so thoroughly in
earnest it was a comfort to look at her.
“Why, I really like Tryphosa,” said Jenny King, walking home one day
beside Miss Marvin; “she is as different as can be. Don’t it seem
queer, rather, she should become a Christian right away, and Sue
Sherman and Nettie Rand and me, who’ve been talked to all our lives and
know exactly what we ought to do, never get a bit nearer, as I see?”
“It’s the old story over and over, away back to the Jews and
Ninevites,” said Miss Marvin, smiling rather sadly.
“The Jews and Ninevites?” repeated Jenny inquiringly.
“Yes; you remember, don’t you, that when God sent his servant Jonah
to reprove the people of Nineveh they repented at once, and prayed to
God for help; but when God sent his own Son to the Jews, his chosen
people, who had been ‘talked to’ all their lives by his prophets and
his providences, and who ‘knew exactly what they ought to do’ when the
promised Messiah came, they refused to listen, they didn’t want to
believe; and ‘publicans and harlots went into the kingdom’ before them.”
“But, Miss Marvin,” began Jenny hesitatingly, “don’t you think such
folks—like Tryphosa, she was so dreadfully wicked—ought—I mean, need
it more than—than—”
“Good people, like you and me, who never do anything selfish or unkind
or hateful,” said Miss Marvin, smiling. “Perhaps; only the apostle
Paul, one of the best men I ever heard of,—a brave, upright, moral
man, before he became a Christian,—called himself the “chief of
sinners”; and if—”
Turning a corner they came suddenly upon a group of boys,—Tom
Lawrence, who had just been taunting Dick with some of his old scrapes,
and Dick, who, in a blaze of passion, had been uttering oath after oath.
“There’s your model Sabbath-School scholar!” Will Carter had sneeringly
said.
Miss Marvin appeared to have heard nothing of all this; she spoke to
them all pleasantly. Dick slunk hurriedly away; Tom disappeared no less
rapidly, followed by the others boys of his set; Say Ellis called to
Jenny from across the street, and Will Carter was left to walk along
with Miss Marvin.
Almost before he knew it, he was talking over all his many plans and
hopes for the future. To fit thoroughly for college, to graduate “A No.
1,” work himself into an “up-stairs lawyer,” to make rousing speeches
that would carry everything before them, possibly to step from the
Legislature into Congress: that was Will’s ambition.
“And a worthy one,” said Miss Marvin encouragingly. “It will fill this
life full of work and happiness. Now, what are you doing for the next,
the life that is to last always?”
The boy drew himself up stiffly. “I do the best I know how, and that’s
all anybody can,” he answered proudly. “_I_ don’t pretend to great
things and make a fizzle of it, as _some_ boys do.”
“The best you know how,” repeated Miss Marvin. “Well, do you know as
much as you ought?”
Will reddened. “I—I don’t quite understand.”
“I mean this, Will. Suppose God were to ask you to-day that same
question—Do you know as much as you ought?—Couldn’t Dick Vance rise
up in judgment against you,—you, a deacon’s son, whose father has
prayed for you every night and morning since you saw the light, has
shown you by example what a Christian’s joy and hope is, and urged you
every day to make it your own? Dick, as you know, has never been in
Sabbath School until very recently; had, before that, scarcely heard
a word at home about another life; and yet, unless I am very much
mistaken, Dick will go home to-night and repent bitterly of the sin
into which he fell just now, while Will Carter, who flung his failure
in his face, will rest satisfied he is doing the best he knows how.”
There was no reply, and Miss Marvin, stopping at Mrs. Forbush’s gate,
said simply, “Please think it over, Will. I believe Dick is trying
every day to learn of Him ‘in whom are hidden all the treasures of
wisdom and knowledge.’ Be sure, Will, it is not true of you, as God
said of the Laodiceans, ‘Thou knowest not thou art miserable and poor
and blind,’ for not until you see your _need_ of the wisdom from above
will you seek help of One ‘mighty to save,’ and who will let no one who
trusts him ‘make a fizzle of it.’”
IX.
PHOSY’S WORK.
“——and by it he being dead yet speaketh.”
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”